THE  NOVELS  AND  ROMANCES 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


D«inD)i  ilibrarp  CDition 


MONDAY   TALES 

LETTERS   FROM   MY   MILL 

LETTERS  TO  AN    ABSENT  ONE 


The  Jfdveh 
and  "Roptances 

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INTRODUCTORY   NOTE. 


There  are  offspring  of  genius  that  start  upon  a 
separate  existence  of  their  own,  without  sponsors, 
quite  independent  of  their  paternity,  of  which  they 
make  no  betrayal  that  may  throw  light  upon  the 
relation  which  must  always  exist  between  the  man 
of  letters  and  his  art.  On  the  whole,  very  few  are 
the  works  in  English  that  possess  an  autobio- 
graphical flavor.  Our  greatest  men  are  strangely 
silent  about  themselves.  A  dumb  devil  of  incom- 
municableness  and  reticence  possesses  them.  In- 
terrogate their  writings,  and  these  scarcely  answer, 
or  answer  at  times  in  a  half-shamefaced,  halting, 
and  awkward  fashion,  as  if  to  talk  of  one's  self  at 
all  were,  in  some  sort,  a  deadly  sin.  This  reserve 
is  perhaps  inseparable  from  a  race  that  regan 
literature  as  a  most  serious  profession,  mere  causerie 
in  print  as  a  trivial  thing,  but  it  springs  more  natu- 
rally from  the  conviction  that,  however  a  man's 
work  may  belong  to  mankind,  his  life  belongs  to 
himself  alone,  not  to  the  afterworld,  is  a  thing  of 
value  to  no  one  save  himself,  —  that  curiosity  o^ 
the  part  of  the  public  is  an  intrusion.  Genius, 
especially  English  genius,  decrees  for  itself  a 
strangely  isolated  path. 


viii  Introduction. 

Our  Gallic  brother,  on  the  contrary,  recognizes 
that,  once  the  children  of  his  brain  have  seen  the 
light  of  day,  he  has  indeed  given  "  hostages  V  to 
Fame,  and  accepts  good-humoredly  the  inevitable 
consequences,  assumes  the  fact  that  the  world  is 
henceforth  interested  in  him,  regards  its  curiosity 
not  as  an  impertinent  emotion,  but  a  most  laudable 
one,  deserving  to  be  gratified.  He  realizes,  too, 
that  not  the  most  kindly,  intelligent,  and  grateful 
of  all  critics  among  his  posterity  shall  ever  be  able 
to  throw  a  more  brilliant  and  sympathetic  light 
upon  an  author's  life  and  work  and  leanings  than 
he  himself  can.  Nor  does  he  consider  a  playful 
na'rve  egotism  incompatible  with  the  dignity  of  a 
litterateur.  Hugo,  Dumas,  Daudet,  are  merely 
instances  of  that  which  is  so  peculiarly  a  French 
characteristic.  If  the  Saxon  is  a  nation  of  con- 
querors, the  French  is  peculiarly  a  nation  of  talk- 
ers ;  and  literature,  after  all,  is  merely  conversation 
in  print,  a  delightful  monologue,  where  the  writer's 
public  is  also  his  friend. 

The  Frenchman,  whether  he  writes  merely  for 
the  Parisian,  for  France,  or  for  a  still  larger  repub- 
lic, is  en  rapport  with  his  public,  and  assumes  it  is 
interested  in  himself.  Hence  the  spontaneity  and 
charm  of  what  he  has  to  say,  often  one  of  manner, 
rather  than  of  matter.  Is  he  his  own  biographer? 
Then  his  artistic  sense  will  save  him  from  sins 
against  good  taste.  He  suppresses  here,  adds  a 
touch  there,  is  nowhere  too  literal.  His  the  power 
to  embellish,  ornament  facts,  interweave  fancies, 
interpolate  just  that  element  of  the  picturesque, 


Introduction.  ix 

the  fabulous,  which  adds  flavor.  Always  an  enemy 
to  dull  literalness,  in  order  to  entertain  you  he 
merely  begs  that  you  will  not  take  him  too  seri- 
ously. He  does  not  ask  you  to  believe  all  he  tells 
you,  or  to  probe  too  minutely,  merely  to  discover 
just  how  much  is  fact,  and  what  is  fiction.  You 
may  smile  at  him,  and  he  is  not  offended,  for  often 
a  smile  at  his  own  expense  has  anticipated  yours. 
And  if  at  times  he  seems  to  wear  the  cap  and 
bells  of  a  jester,  his  real  mood  is  perhaps  too  sad 
for  weeping.  A  laugh  may  lurk  behind  the  tear; 
the  tear  quite  as  often  hides  beneath  the  smile. 
This  was  at  times  the  charm  of  Heine's  prose,  its 
wit  and  humor,  at  best,  more  French  than  Ger- 
man ;  the  charm  of  Jean  Paul's,  —  the  Midas 
touch  that  poetizes  minor  miseries  and  petty  pains. 
This,  too,  is  the  quality  of  Daudet's  Short  Stories. 

Yet  Daudet  was  a  realist.  He  wrote  of  little 
that  had  not  come  under  his  observation,  was  all 
his  life  a  laborious  taker  of  notes.  Fromont  Jenne, 
The  Nabob,  Jack,  Sapko,  —  these  are  contemporary 
studies,  realistic  enough,  of  life  as  he  saw  it.  The 
background  is  ever  a  familiar  one. 

But  it  is  true  that  in  these  longer  works  the  per- 
sonal note  is  rarely  struck.  The  realist  was  also 
too  much  an  artist  to  confound  the  office  of 
biographer  and  of  novelist. 

And  that  is  why  —  to  the  student  for  whom  life 
and  literature  are  inseparable  —  Daudet's  longer 
novels  are  not  the  most  interesting  of  his  works, 
since  there  is  always  a  certain  fascination  in  seek- 
ing behind  names  and  titles  and  events  that  un- 


x  Introduction. 

known  quantity,  the  writer  himself,  —  a  delight  in 
the  book  about  which  clings  the  delicate  perfume 
of  a  personality  not  purely  fictitious.  As  we  love 
to  trace  those  resemblances,  real  or  fancied,  of 
children  to  their  parents,  so  we  delight  in  those 
mannerisms  of  a  writer  peculiarly  his.  own,  —  those 
confidences,  stray  bits  of  information  that  reveal 
the  man  through  his  writings. 

In  some  few  of  his  works,  not  the  longer  ones, 
Daudet  has  left  the  reader  this  legacy,  about  which 
lingers  the  charm  of  all  dear,  personal,  familiar 
things.  In  Le  Petit  Ckose,  Souvenirs  d'uu  Homme 
de  Lettres,  in  Trente  Ans  de  Paris,  it  is  Daudet  who 
speaks.  Le  Petit  Chose  is  the  narrative  of  a  youth 
not  as  yet  quite  sure  of  himself.  Its  very  strength 
is  also  its  weakness.  As  Daudet  himself  said,  "  At 
twenty-five  one  is  scarcely  mature  enough  to  review 
and  annotate  his  own  life !  "  In  the  Souvenirs  and 
in  Thirty  Years  of  Paris,  the  personal  note  is  struck 
again,  but  this  time  in  stronger,  manlier  fashion, 
by  a  man  sure  of  himself,  his  art.  In  Lettres  de 
mon  Mdulin  and  Contes  du  Lundi  are  the  inter- 
mediate experiences  that  bridge  the  gap  between 
the  dreams  of  a  youth  of  twenty  and  the  maturer 
views  and  soberer  vision  of  the  man  of  fifty. 

Reading  these  chapters  of  Daudet's  life  written 
by  himself,  one  almost  wishes  that  every  man  of 
letters  might  be  his  own  biographer  —  and  with  a 
touch  as  kindly  and  tolerant  of  himself  and  others 
as  was  Alphonse  Daudet.  It  is  a  loving,  altogether 
lovable  personality  that  is  revealed  to  us  in  The 
Letters  from   my  Mill   and    The  Monday    Tales. 


Introduction.  xi 

Little  What 's  His  Name  grown  a  few  years  older, 
that  is  all ;  still  the  Child  of  Provence,  impulsive, 
warm-hearted,  —  a  child  who  has  not  yet  outgrown 
his  fondness  for  playing  at  Crusoe ;  though  he  has 
parted  with  Friday  and  the  parrot,  he  is  still  a  soli- 
tary Robinson  with  all  Paris  for  his  Desert  Island. 

It  is  Little  What 's  His  Name  whose  voice  is  heard 
again  in  The  Monday  Tales  in  a  strain  as  prophetic 
as  tender  when  he  stands  at  the  bedside  of  a  dead 
friend :  — - 

"  It  was  heartrending  to  gaze  at  the  lifeless  head, 
drooping  so  heavily  upon  the  pillow,  asleep  in 
death,  while  at  his  side  lay  that  book  which  so 
soon  would  be  seen  in  the  shop-windows ;  whose 
title  passers-by  would  read  mechanically,  and  carry 
away  in  the  memory,  vividly  impressed  there,  with 
the  name  of  its  author  inscribed  now  upon  that 
sadder  leaf  of  the  city's  register,  —  that  name  whose 
letters  looked  so  gay  upon  the  cover,  the  cover  still 
fresh,  unfaded.  The  entire  problem  of  the  soul  and 
the  body  was  there :  that  rigid  corpse  would  so 
soon  be  given  to  earth  and  forgotten;  while  the 
book,  starting  forth  on  its  life  apart  from  him,  like 
a  visible  soul,  was  full  of  vitality,  and  perhaps  a 
thing  immortal." 

With  the  shock  of  Daudet's  death  still  fresh  in 
the  memory,  the  title  of  his  Last  Book  still  ring- 
ing in  the  ears,  the  words  have  a  deeper  signifi- 
cance than  before.  "  The  least  page  he  has  ever 
written  will  preserve  the  vibration  of  his  soul  as 
long  as  our  language  shall  exist,"  said  Zola  at  the 
grave  of  Daudet.    Strong  and  deep  words  from 


xii  Introduction, 

the  grim  realist  whose  theories  of  life  and  art  seem 
often  so  opposed  to  his  own.  Did  Daudet  antici- 
pate this  verdict  in  The  Last  Book  ? 

Whether  so  or  not,  no  more  lasting  legacy  to  the 
French  language  than  the  various  series  of  short 
stories  which  appeared  from  time  to  time  during 
the  middle  period  of  his  life  in  Paris.  Had  he 
written  not  another  line,  his  place  in  literature 
would  have  been  assured.  For  each  of  these 
stories  bears  the  stamp  of  a  classic,  is  a  book  in 
miniature.  Nothing  more  finished,  more  perfect, 
in  literary  form  than  these  contes,  —  not  even  the 
prose  of  De  Maupassant.  For  De  Maupassant's 
short  stories  are  prose  always,  prose  of  the  cruellest, 
bitterest  sort,  which  cuts,  sears,  corrodes,  —  art  in- 
deed for  art's  sake,  but  stripped  of  every  generous 
illusion.  Cruel  motive,  mean  thought,  ignoble  de- 
sire, are  so  often  the  theme  of  him  who  has  penned 
the  most  perfect  prose  ever  written.  The  short 
stories  of  Daudet,  on  the  contrary,  are  poems  in 
prose. 

Daudet  is  not  an  optimist  through  indifference 
or  ignorance,  but  through  conviction.  He  saw  as 
plainly  as  did  De  Maupassant  the  frailty  and  mean- 
ness and  misery  of  life.  His  ear  was  equally 
sensitive  to  every  strain  of  the  world's  minor  music  ; 
yet,  after  all,  it  is  a  world  of  rich  and  generous 
emotions  Daudet  would  have  us  believe.  Life  is 
a  goodly  thing.  The  sunshine  —  how  blessed  a 
gift !  The  peasant's  rags  need  not  of  necessity 
hide  a  beggar's  soul.  For  Daudet,  thought  has 
wings.     The  convulsive  heaving  of  a  shawl  above 


Introduction,  xiii 

the  poor,  thin  shoulders  it  covers  but  scantily,  is 
sufficient  to  reveal  to  him  all  the  domestic  tragedy 
of  a  simple  bourgeoise.  A  mere  pantomime  of 
the  street,  a  little  dumb  show  as  expressive  as 
the  pantomime  of  two  of  Seraphin's  marionettes, 
often  suggests  to  him  a  drama  of  the  hearth. 

Daudet  was,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  pioneer  of 
the  modern  Short  Story  in  France.  The  conte,  the 
nouvelle,  has  indeed  been  the  special  inheritance 
of  the  descendants  of  the  Latins,  and  in  France 
the  short  story  is  centuries  old. 

Yet  with  Daudet  the  short  story  acquired  a  new, 
purely  modern  significance.  He  was  perhaps  the 
first  to  apply  this  form  of  literary  art  to  a  passing 
phase  of  thought,  to  a  momentary  emotion,  and 
to  incidents  that  are  psychological  in  character, 
rather  than  anecdotic.  La  Conie'die  Humaine  Balzac 
called  that  tremendous  drama  prolonged  through 
volume  after  volume.  Une  chronique  humaine, 
Daudet  might  have'  called  those  short  stories  ex- 
tending over  some  of  the  best,  most  productive  years 
of  his  life,  —  a  human  chronicle  of  contemporary 
life  and  manners,  on  a  humbler,  far  less  pretentious 
scale  than  Balzac's  Comedy,  —  yet  a  chronicle 
that  appeals  to  all  classes,  finds  its  subjects  among 
all  classes,  and  even  among  the  de'classe'.  The  Paris 
ouvrier,  the  little  bourgeois,  the  poet,  the  Aca- 
demician, agas,  Turkos,  provincials,  all  are  familiar 
figures  for  Daudet.  And  note  how  every  super- 
fluous detail,  every  repetition,  is  brushed  away. 
Never  a  phrase  too  much.  Each  sketch  is  as  clear- 
cut   as    a    cameo,   upon    whose    brilliant    back* 


xiv  Introduction. 

ground  stands  in  fine,  bold  relief  the  figure,  the 
event,  he  wishes  to  describe. 

"  Un  peu  trop  de  papier,  mon  fils  !  "  says  Flaubert 
after  a  perusal  of  Jack.  This  charge  cannot  be 
brought  against  the  short  stories.  Each  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  and  contains  material  that,  if  ampli- 
fied, might  serve  for  many  a  novel  or  drama. 

Yet  how  slight  in  themselves  are  often  the  details 
of  the  story.  A  mere  newspaper  clipping,  a 
chance  paragraph,  no  more.  And  yet  so  much  of 
life  is  made  up  of  the  seemingly  insignificant  hap- 
penings. Daudet  rarely  deals  with  the  exceptional, 
rarely  descends  to  extravagance  or  caricature  in 
his  portrayals  of  character.  It  is  in  the  average, 
ordinary,  seemingly  commonplace  man  and  woman 
that  he  frequently  finds  all  the  elements  of  a  tragedy, 
a  domestic  drama.  Here  at  least  he  is  one  with 
the  realists,  with  Tourguenef,  Zola,  Tolstoi,  Ibsen. 
But  he  differs  from  them  all  as  completely  as 
the  atmosphere  of  his  own  sunburned  Provence 
differs  from  the  cold,  gray  dawn  of  a  winter  morn- 
ing in  Paris.  He  touches  commonplace  events  to 
transfigure  them ;  he  does  not  see  life  through  rose- 
hued  spectacles,  but  he  views  many  things  through 
the  luminous,  tender  mist  of  fancy.  For  the  great 
man  who  reads  life  deeply,  the  humblest,  least  im- 
portant event  is  full  of  solemn  significance,  the  small- 
est life  holds  in  itself,  potentially,  the  elements  of 
the  sublimest  drama,  the  profoundest  tragedy. 

It  was  this  deep,  underlying  sense  of  the  vast 
possibilities  of  life  that  made  Daudet's  mirth  a 
far  different   thing   from  the  humor  of  Dickens. 


Introduction.  xv 

Daudet's  mirth  is  sometimes  scarcely  more  than  a 
suppressed  trembling  of  the  muscles,  his  humor 
as  delicate  as  the  quiver  of  a  butterfly's  wing.  It 
springs  from  subtler  perceptions  of  the  incon- 
gruous, the  ludicrous,  than  those  which  made 
Dickens  a  popular  idol.  Daudet  states  often 
from  a  humorous  standpoint  a  truth  that  has  a 
deeper  side,  but  the  smile  is  scarcely  more  than 
a  ripple  of  the  surface.  A  wave  may  break  into 
innumerable,  tiny  flowers  of  foam,  but  the  deep 
undercurrent  remains  unchanged.  Daudet's  humor 
is  never  the  Gargantuan  laugh. 

The  short  stories  are  Daudet  at  his  best,  a  style 
tense,  virile,  full  of  suppressed  energy.  The  pic- 
tures he  sees  are  clearly  conveyed  to  the  mental 
retina,  and  focused  there.  His  sense  of  color 
and  form  is  at  times  as  vivid  and  keen  as  Gautier's. 
Sometimes  he  lays  on  the  colors  broadly,  again 
with  all  the  minuter  delicacy  of  touch.  He  has 
always  the  painter's  instinct  for  a  fitting  back- 
ground which  shall  bring  his  figures  into  relief. 

In  a  charming  chapter  of  Thirty  Years  of  Paris > 
Daudet  has  given  us  the  story  of  his  Letters  from 
my  Mill.  Concerning  The  Monday  Tales  he  has 
said  little.  Possibly  this  is  because  they  are  some- 
what of  the  nature  of  isolated  sketches,  not  bound 
together  by  one  central  idea.  Possibly  they  had 
not,  in  his  view,  the  scope  and  value  of  the  longer 
works,  yet  it  is  true  that  they  helped  to  build  that 
solid  structure  of  Daudet's  reputation,  and  are  as 
finished  in  workmanship  as  anything  he  has  ever 
written , 


xvi  Introduction, 

The  Monday  Tales  first  appeared  as  occasional 
contributions  to  Figaro.  A  portion  of  them  were 
brought  into  volume-form  in  1871,  and  published 
under  the  title  of  Lettres  a  mi  Absent,  dedicated  to 
Daudet's  poet-friend,  Paul  Arene,  a  captain  of  the 
Mobiles. 

In  1873,  all  the  stories  were  brought  together 
and  then  published  under  the  title  of  Les  Conies 
du  Lundi.  The  story  entitled  The  Three  Low 
Masses  has  also  appeared  in  Letters  from  my  Mill. 
Those  which  originally  formed  part  of  the  Lettres 
d  mi  Absent  are  The  Mothers,  At  the  Outposts,  Coun- 
try-folk in  Paris,  The  Boy  Spy,  Be'lisaire's  Prussian, 
The  Defence  of  Tarascon,  The  Siege  of  Berlin,  and 
The  Clock  of  Bougival,  published  originally  as  Our 
Clocks. 

The  writer  was  a  man  of  more  than  thirty,  to 
whom  success  had  come,  who  had  found  his  public. 
The  events  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War  had  sobered 
him,  and  given  a  new  tinge  of  earnestness  to  his 
work. 

There  is  a  nobler  strain  in  these  stories  than 
speaks  from  the  pages  of  Le  Petit  Chose,  —  the  ring 
of  passionate  patriotism,  no  longer  the  voice  of 
Provence,  or  of  Paris,  but  the  voice  of  France. 

These  stories,  offered  to  the  most  captious  of 
editors  who  has  ever  catered  to  the  most  capricious 
of  publics,  were  polished  and  repolished  with  the 
utmost  care  before  they  reached  the  columns  of 
Le  Figaro.  In  Thirty  Years  of  Paris,  Daudet  has 
left  his  impressions  of  De  Villemessant,  the  terrible 
ogre   of  Figaro,   who   after   numerous   disastrous 


Introduction.  xvii 

literary  enterprises,  the  last  of  which  had  been 
suppressed  by  the  police  at  the  time  of  the  famous 
coup-d'e'tat,  was  devoting  all  his  energies  to  the 
exploitation  of  the  novelty  in  literature,  every- 
thing most  article  among  literary  wares  bearing  the 
genuine  stamp  article  de  Paris.  De  Villemessant 
would  not  seem  as  unusual  a  figure  to-day  as  at 
the  time  when  Daudet  first  met  him.  Ernest 
Daudet,  in  Mon  Frere  et  Moi,  has  described  his 
brother's  relations  with  him.  Daudet  has  related 
with  what  trembling  he  committed  to  the  letter- 
box of  Figaro  that  delightful,  fantastic,  symbolic 
thing,  the  Romance  of  Little  Red  Riditig  Hood, 
which  first  attracted  the  ogre's  attention,  and 
caused  him  to  recognize  the  appearance  of  a  new 
force  in  literature. 

Fortunate  for  Daudet  that  so  early  in  his  career 
he  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  this  formidable  char- 
acter. True,  the  connection  with  Figaro  brought 
him  no  great  pecuniary  gain :  money  did  not  come 
in  very  fast;  and  the  author  of  Little  Red  Riding- 
hood's  Romance  had  not  a  few  unromantic,  very 
realistic  interviews  with  a  very  grim  Wolf.  At  this 
time  he  had  quitted  the  dismal  attic  in  the  Grand 
Hotel  du  Senat;  but  the  garret  was  none  too 
warm,  in  which  he  sat  muffled  in  an  old  blanket 
writing  for  Figaro.  And  yet  he  was  assured  of  a 
public,  and  a  public  to  which  he  was  compelled  to 
give  nothing  but  his  best. 

To  return  to  The  Monday  Tales.  Roughly 
classified,  they  fall  into  three  divisions,  —  those 
which  are  autobiographical,  in  the  nature  of  remi- 


x  vi  i  i  In  Iroduclion. 

niscence;  those  which  are  chronicles,  bird's  ey< 
pictures  of  contemporaneous  events;  and  those 
which  are  more  purely  imaginative  and  fantastic 
They  have  been  classified  in  this  volume  as  fantas} 
and  history,  —  caprices  and  souvenirs.  The  lin< 
that  separates  fact  from  fiction  must  not  be  drawi 
too  closely.  Daudet,  like  all  artists,  took  occa 
sional  liberties  with  history,  modified  here,  alterec 
slightly  there,  —  as  in  the  Battle  of  Pere-La-Chais 
and  the  story  of  Les  Petits  P&tfc.  Nor  is  i 
always  easy  to  say  how  far  fiction  mingles  witl 
fact  in  these  stories.  Such  stories  as  The  Siege  q 
Parts,  The  Mothers,  are  stamped  with  the  spirit  o 
truth,  with  a  vitality  which  makes  one  forget  to  in 
quire  how  literally  they  may  be  true.  Occasionally 
the  use  of  coincidences  seems  a  little  overdrawn 
as  in  The  Siege  of  Berlin,  where  the  death  of  th< 
old  cuirassier,  simultaneous  with  the  entry  of  th< 
Germans  into  Paris,  savors  just  a  trifle  of  the  melo 
dramatic  and  improbable.  But,  after  all,  The  Sieg< 
of  Paris  had  not  a  little  of  melodrama  minglec 
with  its  tragedy,  and  no  fiction  could  seem  mon 
extravagant  than  much  of  the  truth  concerning  it 
In  the  death  of  Chauvin,  "  the  Last  Frenchman,' 
we  have  grim,  sad  truth  regarding  the  siege, — truth 
however,  from  the  standpoint  of  an  eye-witness 
who,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  minor  acto: 
in  the  drama,  never  lost  his  power  of  viewing 
events  from  the  standpoint  of  a  disinterested  out 
sider. 

The  touching  story,  La  Derniere  Classe,  migh 
have  come  from  the  lips  of  an 'Alsatian,  so  true  i 


Introduction.  xix 

it  to  the  spirit  of  Alsace  during  those  sorrowful 
days  that  followed  the  Franco-Prussian  War. 

The  part  that  Daudet  played  in  this  war  it  is 
not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  here,  except  to  em- 
phasize the  value  it  gives  to  those  historic  sketches 
in  the  Contes  du  Lundi,  which  relate  to  the  siege 
of  Paris.  The  narration  of  an  eye-witness  of 
events  while  history  is  in  process  of  making  has 
always  a  significance  far  beyond  that  possessed 
by  the  commentary  of  the  most  brilliant  historian, 
who  must  rewrite  history  from  musty  archives. 
When  the  eye-witness  is  Alphonse  Daudet,  the 
value  of  the  chronicle  is  still  greater.  A  man  with 
a  passion  for  new  scenes  and  events,  whose  mental 
notes  were  copious,  keen,  and  accurate ;  a  man 
who  sees  a  thousand  subtile,  impalpable  things  that 
escape  coarser  powers  of  vision,  who  possesses 
the  rare  gift  of  using  words  with  such  exactness 
that  others  can  see  with  his  eyes,  pictures  so  vivid 
they  need  but  little  by  way  of  text,  —  such  an  eye- 
witness of  the  Siege  of  Paris  cannot  fail  to  make 
valuable  contributions  to  its  history.  With  a  good 
map  of  Paris  and  its  fortifications,  and  these  histor- 
ical sketches  of  The  Monday  Tales,  the  general 
reader  may  glean  more  of  the  actual  events  of  the 
siege  than  from  many  a  history. 

The  first  days  and  weeks  of  the  Terrible  Year, 
the  life  at  the  outposts,  the  subsequent  days  of  the 
Commune,  —  all  are  touched  upon.  Needless  per- 
haps to  say  that  Daudet  had  small  sympathy  with 
the  events  and  leaders  of  the  Commune,  and  left 
Paris  during  those  troublous  days. 


xx  Introduction, 

In  that  mighty  upheaval  of  Paris  which  brought 
so  many  turbid  elements  to  the  surface, — that  drama 
wherein  the  ludicrous  so  often  jostles  the  tragic, 
the  profound,  —  Daudet's  perceptions  of  the  farcical 
and  incongruous  are  as  keen  as  his  perception  ol 
the  noble,  the  pathetic,  and  heroic.  He  sees  Pari? 
as  Englishmen  have  seen  and  described  it  during 
the  siege.  No  unprejudiced,  impartial  outsider 
ever  saw  the  inherent  weak  points  of  French  life 
and  character  more  keenly  than  he.  Politics  he 
hated.  Officialism,  though  he  had  studied  it  froir 
the  inside,  possessed  no  glamour  for  him.  He 
dared  to  describe  things  as  he  saw  them,  yet  the 
patriotic  note  in  his  writings  is  as  strong  as  the 
critical  and  ironic.  Daudet  is  French  indeed  in  hi* 
seeming  inability  to  understand  the  conquering 
Teuton.  His  prejudice  at  times  moves  a  smile 
It  is  so  naive,  so  intensely  Parisian,  that  contempi 
for  a  conqueror  who  could  not  even  pronounce  the 
language  of  the  vanquished  !  He  can  see  onl) 
grossness,  coarseness,  and  ignorance,  in  "  Attik 
encamped  about  Paris."  He  regards  the  Berlines( 
with  all  the  inbred  repugnance  of  a  Parisian  //^ 
gant.  So  De  Montpavan,  had  he  outlived  his  Duk< 
long  enough,  might  have  lamented  the  utter  ab 
sence  of  Tenue  —  on  the  part  of  the  conqueror 
Bulwer-Lytton,  in  his  novel  of "  The  Parisians,"  see: 
the  German  from  quite  another  than  the  Gallic 
standpoint. 

The  tremendous  principles  at  work  beneath  tha 
invasion  of  France,  the  irr.i,  inexorable  energ) 
of  the  Great  Chancellor,  the  mighty  forces  back  o 


Introduction,  xxi 

the  movement,  —  if  Daudet  realized  anything  of 
these  things,  he  does  not  let  us  suspect  the  fact. 
Possibly  he  did  understand  far  better  than  he  lets 
us  believe  in  Les  Contes  du  Lundi.  Possibly  if  he 
could  speak,  his  last  word  concerning  the  Teuton 
would  be  something  profounder  than  the  delicate 
raillery  of  The  Clock  of  Bougival,  or  the  less  kindly 
satire  of  The  Blind  Emperor. 

The  siege  of  Paris  left  its  ineffaceable  influence 
upon  Daudet's  life.  The  war  of  1870  was  for  him 
a  revelation,  writes  L6on  Daudet.  At  the  Out- 
posts and  My  Kepi  contain  some  of  his  personal 
recollections  of  the  days  of  the  siege. 

With  the  exception  of  the  sketches  relating  to 
the  siege,  the  stories  in  this  volume  which  are 
reminiscences  of  the  writer  are  not  many.  The  Pope 
is  Dead  contains  recollections  of  Daudet's  child- 
hood. Readers  of  Le  Petit  Chose  will  remember 
the  sale  of  the  factory,  and  the  heartbreak  of 
Little  Crusoe  at  seeing  his  desert  island  transformed. 
Shortly  afterward,  the  Daudet  family  removed  to 
Lyons,  exchanging  its  fog  and  gloom  for  their 
beloved  Nimes.  Alphonse  found  delight  and  con- 
solation upon  the  river.  To  spend  long  afternoons 
upon  it  he  played  truant  again  and  again,  the 
motherly  Ernest  shielding  the  younger  brother  from 
blame.  When  reports  of  the  boy's  absence  were 
sent  home,  Ernest  would  intercept  them  and  an- 
swer them  in  his  father's  name.  Often  he  would 
aid  the  younger  in  inventing  excuses,  privately 
lecturing  the  little  brother,  who,  in  the  deep  con- 
trition  of  the   moment,  would   solemnly  promise 


xxii  Introduction, 

never  to  sin  again.  The  imagination  of  Ernest  was 
not  always  equal  to  the  strain  of  inventing  these 
repeated  excuses,  but  the  imaginative  powers  of 
the  future  author  of  Tartarin  never  failed  him,  and 
upon  one  occasion  he  tells  us  he  actually  invented 
the  death  of  the  visible  Head  of  the  Church  to 
divert  from  himself  the  suspicions  of  that  dear 
mother,  —  no  Roman  of  them  all  more  devout 
Roman  Catholic  than  she.  And,  most  startling 
fact,  the  ingenious  young  Provencal,  the  future 
father  of  Tartarin,  was  so  deeply  overcome  by  the 
emotion  which  his  story  had  called  forth  that  on 
the  sorrowful  evening,  when,  seated  about  the  table, 
the  family  recalled  the  history  of  popes  past  and 
present,  he  almost  came  to  believe  his  own  inven- 
tion. Those  who  love  to  think  that  the  child  is 
father  to  the  man  will  see  in  this  young  meridional 
the  promise  of  the  novelist  who  describes  the  feats 
of  his  lion-hunting  countryman  with  such  sympa- 
thetic and  loving  irony  of  soul;  and  the  very, 
very  good  people  will  remember  that  in  the  south 
of  France  the  Lie  is  not  regarded  too  seriously,  and 
that,  indeed,  all  France  is  un  pen  de  Tarascon. 

In  The  Caravansary  and  in  Decorated  the  i$t/i 
of  August  we  have  detached  pages  from  Daudet's 
notes  taken  during  his  journey  in  Algeria. 

In  1 86 1  the  evil  effects  of  the  privations  Daudet 
had  endured  since  his  coming  to  Paris,  four  years 
before,  began  to  manifest  themselves.  He  fell  seri- 
ously ill.  De  Morny,  who  had  no  little  fondness 
for  his  young  attache'  du  cabinet,  sent  for  him,  and 
gave  him  leave  of  absence  to  travel.     "  I  must  ap< 


Introduction.  xxiii 

point  you  sub-prefect  somewhere  in  the  South," 
he  said  graciously.  "  You  are  very  young,  and 
you  will  not  cut  your  hair,  but  that  will  not  mat- 
ter." And  he  sent  him,  at  the  doctor's  suggestion, 
to  Algeria,  with  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
the  tour.  New  and  picturesque  surroundings,  nov- 
elty of  scenery,  the  rich  and  brilliant  coloring  of 
the  picture,  made  a  strong  impression.  To  this 
journey  we  owe  two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  The 
Monday   Tales. 

He  returned  to  Paris  just  in  time  to  be  present 
at  the  performance  of  his  first  play,  La  Derniere 
Idole.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  patron  was 
there,  that  the  Duchess  broke  her  fan,  so  vigorous 
her  applause,  Daudet  tells  us  that  he  found  it  a 
relief  when  the  curtain  fell,  and  hurried  away, 
edging  along  the  walls,  his  collar  turned  up, 
ashamed  and  furtive  as  a  thief. 

In  Un  Soir  de  premiere  he  gives  us  a  painful  bit 
of  confidence  as  to  his  varied  emotions  on  a  first 
night  performance  of  one  of  his  plays,  and  describes 
in  his  vivid  way  the  agonies  of  an  unsuccessful 
dramatist.  Daudet's  imagination  had  nerves,  as 
well  as  wings.  He  suffered  at  times  from  an  ex- 
cess of  it ;  and  it  must  be  remembered,  as  regards 
this  sensitiveness  concerning  his  plays,  that  he  had 
cause  for  it;  they  have  been  the  least  successful 
of  his  writings,  —  his  genius  was  not  of  the  sort  to 
accommodate  itself  readily  to  the  exigencies  of  the 
stage. 

In  1862  his  health  failed  again,  and  he  was 
granted  another  absence.     During  a  sea-voyage, 


xx  iv  Introduction. 

he  visited  Corsica  and  Sardinia.  He  made  many 
notes  during  this  journey,  which  were  afterwards 
used  in  The  Nabob.  Reminiscences  of  it  in  The 
Monday  Tales  are  contained  in  the  Scenes  Gas- 
tronomiques. 

On  his  return  some  memorable  days  were  spent 
with  Mistral  and  the  FeMibres. 

In  1863  began  the  first  series  of  Letters  from  my 
Mill.  In  the  death  of  the  Due  de  Morny,  1865, 
Daudet  lost  a  protector  and  friend.  He  at  once 
and  forever  severed  his  connection  with  things  offi- 
cial. Though  the  duties  of  his  position  were  not 
onerous,  they  had  proved  irksome  to  him. 

Incidentally,  during  those  first  years  in  Paris, 
Daudet  had  seen  not  a  little  of  the  life  of  Bohemia. 
Among  those  who  met  in  the  Brasserie  des 
Martyres,  in  the  street  of  the  same  name,  back  of 
Notre  Dame,  was  one  whom  Daudet  refers  to  more 
than  once  in  the  Contes  du  Lundi,  Alfred  Delvau, 
a  young  author,  better  known,  however,  to  col- 
lectors of  rarities  than  to  the  ordinary  reader. 

Upon  the  death  of  Dc  Morny,  Daudet  and  Del- 
vau planned  a  journey  together,  which  the  latter 
has  described  in  a  little  book  now  very  rare.  In 
this  Daudet  is  referred  to  as  Fortunio! 

Fortunio  has  not  a  great  deal  to  say  of  his  com- 
rade, but  refers  to  him  now  and  then  as  a  not  too 
talkative  companion.  It  seems  they  were  not 
always  in  harmony,  as  the  "  not  too  talkative  com- 
panion "  insisted  always  on  retiring  to  bed  imme- 
diately after  supper,  precisely  at  the  moment  when 
Fortunio  was  widest  awake. 


Introduction.  xxv 

Recollections  of  a  portion  of  this  journey  are  to 
be  found  in  Alsace!  Alsace!  The  Judge  of  Colmar 
contains  more  impressions. 

It  was  this  friend  Delvau  to  whom  reference  is 
again  made  in  The  Blind  Emperor  as  the  wild  com- 
rade with  whom  Daudet  travelled  through  Baden, 
asking  for  food  in  divers  inns  in  phrases  whose 
poverty  of  words  was  concealed  by  a  most  moving 
musical  setting.  Startling  indeed  to  the  good  inn- 
keepers over  the  Rhine  must  have  seemed  the 
melodious  phrases  of  the  two  mad  Frenchmen. 

The  Blind  Emperor  also  revives  other  memories 
of  a  journey  made  in  1866,  before  France  had 
occasion  to  become  more  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  Germans  and  their  language. 

Finest  perhaps  of  all  the  flowering  of  Daudet's 
genius  are  those  tales  which  are  purely  fictitious  or 
fanciful.  They  have  been  likened  to  Hauff's,  Hoff- 
man's, Andersen's ;  but  Daudet's  style  is  peculiarly 
his  own  and  inimitable.  He  plays  upon  the  entire 
gamut  of  thought  and  feeling,  passing  from  grave 
to  gay,  and  striking  music  everywhere.  Here  is  a 
thought  as  light,  as  evanescent,  as  the  play  of  a  sun- 
beam on  the  wing  of  a  humming-bird,  or  the  flash- 
ing of  spray  on  an  oar,  as  it  dips  into  the  ocean ;  — 
again  the  fine,  strong  breath  of  the  mistral. 

A  charm  that  eludes  analysis,  or  literal  transla- 
tion,— 

"  Li  vagoun  dins  de  canestello 
Carrejon  tout,  e  leu,  leu,  leu ! 
Mais  carrejon  pas  lou  souleu, 
Mai  carrejon  pas  lis  estello ! " 


xxvi  Introduction. 

Sunshine  and  starlight  are  here,  the  soul  of 
Provence,  its  vigor  and  joy  incarnate.  Speech  is  a 
clumsy,  lumbering  vehicle  at  best.  "  So  many 
things  are  lost  in  that  journey  from  the  brain  to 
the  hand,"  says  Daudet.  And  how  shall  one 
translate  into  speech,  fire  and  laughter  and  tears? 

That  which  has  endeared  the  writer  of  these 
short  stories  to  the  world  is  the  charm  of  the 
insaisissable.  More  difficult  to  say  what  that  is, 
than  to  state  definitely  all  it  is  not.  It  is  some- 
thing as  subtle  as  the  symbolism  of  Maeterlinck,  a 
quality  that  eludes  the  mere  logician,  the  scientist, 
the  prosateur.  Even  the  wisdom  of  the  sage  shall 
not  compass  it.  There  are  finer  vibrations  of  this 
old  planet  than  those  to  which  our  ears  are  accus- 
tomed ;  but  to  hear,  the  inner  sense  must  be  at- 
tuned to  the  music  of  an  invisible  orchestra,  one 
must  have  spent  long^  lazy  hours  in  Nature's  dear 
hostelry  a  la  belle  Etoile !  —  must  have  spelled 
out  the  book-lore  written  in  quaint  arabesques  in 
that  Bibliotheque  des  Cigales,  whose  next  door 
neighbor  is  the  Poet. 

In  this  volume  Tarascon  appears  —  perhaps  for 
the  first  time,  for  this  may  have  been  written  in 
1 87 1,  while  the  first  of  the  Tartarin  series  is  dated 
1872, —  Tarascon  itself  appears  in  all  its  glory  of 
sunshine  and  river. 

Henry  James  tells  us  that  the  little  town  received 
its  name  from  an  ancient  legend  of  a  terrible 
dragon  known  as  the  Tarasque.  Saint  Martha 
with  her  own  hands  tamed  this  fearful  beast,  which 


Introduction.  xxvii 

once  had  its  cavern  among  the  rocks,  where  now 
a  castle  stands,  and  has  given  its  name  to  the 
town  of  Tartarin,  the  Formidable  !  Whether  this 
mythical  creature  was  as  noisy  a  beast  as  the 
dreadful  dragon  that  belches  fire  and  noise  in  the 
Wagnerian  Trilogy,  Mr.  James  has  not  told  us; 
but  certainly  Tarascon  has  made  no  small  amount 
of  noise  in  the  world  since  the  day  of  the  Dragon ; 
and  the  Tarasconian  of  Alphonse  Daudet  is  quite  as 
formidable  as  the  Wagnerian  dragon,  —  with  eyes 
that  bulge  ferociously,  and  lips  that  belch  noise 
and  fire. 

Near  by  is  the  castle  of  good  King  R6n6,  a 
fortress  of  yellow  stone,  overlooking  the  river. 
Hither,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  King 
Rene  himself  retired,  grown  weary  of  fighting  and 
enamoured  of  his  dear  Provence,  which,  with  a 
proper  showing  of  gratitude,  has  embalmed  his 
memory  in  many  a  legend.  Beaucaire,  separated 
from  Tarascon  by  a  little  footbridge,  was  endeared 
to  Daudet  by  many  a  childish  recollection. 

Tartarin  himself  does  not  appear  in  the  Defence 
so  feelingly  described  in  this  volume.  A  figure  of 
too  majestic,  heroic  proportions  to  be  disposed  of 
in  a  few  brief  pages  —  or  perhaps  at  the  time  he 
was  away  lion-hunting. 

Tarascon  has  long  since  forgiven  "  the  mocking 
child  of  Nimes,"  if  indeed  it  was  ever  greatly  indig- 
nant with  him.  How  would  it  have  been  possible 
to  remain  churlishly  vexed  with  Alphonse  Daudet? 

"  And,  besides,  he  is  one  of  ourselves  1 "  said  a 


xxviii  Introduction. 

son  of  the  Midi ;  he  had  begun  by  abusing  the 
creator  of  Tartarin  with  furious  zeal,  yet  could  not 
restrain  his  laughter  in  recalling  the  hero's  prodi- 
gious feats,  —  that  frank  southern  laughter  en  large 
which  Daudet  tells  about ;  questioned,  he  admitted 
there  was  not  a  little  of  Tartarin  in  the  South,  and, 
gently  led  on,  ended  with  a  glorification  of  Daudet, 
claiming  him  as  the  true,  unique  product  of  the 
Midi  — in  whom  the  North  had  no  share ! 

And  this  is  the  general  attitude  of  the  southerner 
towards  Tartarin.  They  forgive  in  the  southerner, 
in  one  of  themselves,  what  they  would  never  have 
pardoned  in  the  Parisian,  the  bourgeois. 

And  no  mere  Parisian,  no  northerner,  could  have 
written  the  Defence  of  Tarascon.  He  would  have 
passed  by  the  sleepy  little  town  with  a  glance  of 
indifference.  Only  the  humor  and  imagination  of 
a  southerner  ever  could  have  thought  of  rescuing 
it  from  oblivion,  to  make  it  live  forever  as  the 
object  of  the  most  delicious  and  kindly  irony  ever 
penned,  irony  that  leaves  no  sting.  Only  a  me- 
ridional, one  steeped  in  the  sunshine,  the  intense 
warm  atmosphere  of  the  land  of  olives,  could  pene- 
trate the  emotions  of  so  extraordinary  a  being  as 
the  Tarasconnais.  "  lis  e'taient  si  extraordinaires, 
ces  nie'ridionaux  ! "  writes  Daudet.  One  can  al- 
most fancy  how,  with  that  adorable  smile  of  his, 
he  might  have  added,  "  Who  should  know  better 
than  I?  Who  more  of  a  meridional  than  I 
myself?  " 

And  because  of  this  quality,  Daudet  cannot  see 
his  Provence  with  the  eyes  of  the  realist.     It  is  not 


Introduction,  xxix 

a  great  bare  stretch  of  country  washed  with  sun- 
shine, but  the  Land  of  Mirage,  the  Provence  of 
the  Nineteenth-Century  Troubadours,  the  Land  of 
Roumanille  and  Mathieu  and  Mistral,  of  flower- 
fetes  and  contests,  the  Provence  of  legend  and 
song,  of  tender,  glowing  fancy,  —  an  empire  of 
simple,  kindly  hearts. 

To  the  Felibres  and  his  friendship  with  them, 
Daudet  owed  the  revival  of  boyish  associations 
and  the  formation  of  new  ties.  He  has  repaid  the 
debt,  and  aided  not  a  little  in  the  fusion  of  north 
and  south,  —  the  breaking  down  of  those  barriers 
which  sympathy  and  sentiment  decree,  rather  than 
politics. 

But  if  Daudet  was  and  remained  a  southerner, 
life  in  Paris  taught  him  to  note,  to  analyze,  to  avoid 
excess,  tempered  the  exuberance  of  the  south- 
erner, gave  his  art  a  poise,  strength,  and  self- 
restraint  of  character  which  otherwise  it  might 
have  lacked.  He  owed  much  to  the  literary  envi- 
ronment of  Paris,  and,  above  all,  his  comradeship 
with  Flaubert,  De  Goncourt,  and  Zola. 

Daudet  never  quite  overcame  his  first  impression 
of  Paris.  In  writing  of  it  and  of  things  Parisian,  he 
speaks  somewhat  from  the  standpoint  of  an  out- 
sider. The  mighty  maelstrom  of  modern  life  fas- 
cinates him,  but  his  curiosity  seems  somewhat 
akin  to  that  of  a  foreigner.  The  great  city,  with 
its  varied  scenes  and  ever-changing  life,  becomes 
for  him  at  times  a  personified  thing  almost. 
Sometimes  this  Paris  wears  for  him  the  face  of  a 
cruel  inexorable  monster  that  rends  and  devours; 


xxx  Introduction, 

again,  the  face  of  a  courtesan,  —  without  heart, 
whose  smile  is  merely  a  grimace. 

The  life  of  the  streets,  of  the  home,  impresses 
him  profoundly.  He  starts  for  a  walk  and  returns 
wearied,  impregnated  with  all  the  wretchedness 
and  sorrow  of  the  great  city.  His  soul  is  like  a 
sensitized  plate  which  records  every  impression. 
His  sympathies,  never  effeminate,  strike  at  times 
a  note  of  the  feminine,  maternal  almost  in  its 
tenderness. 

This  sympathy  with  wretchedness  and  suffering 
everywhere  is  the  strongest,  almost  the  only  point 
of  resemblance  between  Daudet  and  Dickens. 
One  smiles  with  amazement  to  think  that  Daudet 
should  have  ever  thought  it  necessary  to  disclaim 
such  knowledge  of  Dickens  as  might  warrant  a 
charge  of  plagiarism,  the  resemblances  of  style 
are  so  superficial. 

One  lays  aside  The  Monday  Tales  convinced  that 
Daudet  was  possessed  of  a  Sixth  Sense,  which  per- 
haps may  be  imperfectly  defined  as  the  rudiments 
of  the  Five,  and  the  Soul  that  interprets  them,  that 
intuitive  faculty  that  marks  the  poet. 

No  musician,  in  the  strict  technical  sense  of  the 
term,  yet  Daudet's  prose  is  always  musical, 
rhythmic,  lyrical  in  quality.  Not  a  poet  in  the 
sense  in  which  Hugo  was  a  poet,  yet  the  poetic 
touch  is  upon  all  he  has  fashioned.  His  myopic 
eye  saw  innumerable  fine  things  that  escape  ordi- 
nary eyes.  Not  a  painter,  yet  he  has  left  pen- 
pictures  that  will  live  when  the  canvas  of  many  a 
modern  masterpiece  shall  have  faded. 


Introduction,  xxxi 

If  it  may  sometimes  be  said  of  Genius  that  all 
the  Muses  have  presided  over  its  destiny,  may  we 
not  say  that  all  the  Graces  were  present  at  the 
cradle  of  Alphonse  Daudet? 

Fortunate  and  happy  and  blessed  in  his  life,  a 
sufferer  too  beyond  most  men,  unsoured  by  suffer- 
ing, unspoiled  by  success,  this  teller  of  stories  — 
this  Child  of  Provence,  whose  nervous,  delicate 
fingers,  wasted  by  disease,  all  the  Graces  guided,  — 
he  who  could  express  with  such  surpassing  tender- 
ness and  grace  the  things  he  saw,  and,  finest  of 
fine  things,  added  that  touch  of  mirage,  that 
gleam,  — 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

M.  M. 


CONTENTS 


gart  I. 

FANTASY  AND   HISTORY. 

Page 

The  Last  Lesson i 

A  Game  of  Billiards 9 

The  Vision  of  the  Judge  of  Colmar 16 

The  Boy  Spy 23 

The  Mother 34 

"The  .Siege  of  Berlin 42 

A  Re  jegade  Zouave 53 

The  Clock  of  Bougival 60 

The  Defence  of  Tarascon 69 

Belisaire's  Prussian 80 

Country-folk  in  Paris  during  the  Siege 87 

At  the  Outposts:  Memories  of  the  Siege     ^    .    .    .  93 

Glimpses  of  the  Insurrection     , 104 

The  Ferry in 

The  Color  Sergeant 117 

The  Death  of  Chauvin 125 

Alsace!  Alsace! ....  131 

The  Caravansary •    ...  138 

Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August 144 

My  Kepi         154 


xxxiv  Contents. 

Pagb 

A  TURCO  OF  THE  COMMUNE l6o 

The  Concert  of  Company  Eight 166 

The  Battle  of  Pere-Lachaise     . 172 

~%  The  Little  Pates 178 

Aboard:  A  Monologue 186 

The  Fairies  of  France 192 


d 


$art  EL 

CAPRICES  AND   SOUVENIRS. 

A  Book-keeper 199 

"With  the  Three  Hundred  Thousand  Francs  which 

Girardin  Promised  me!" 2od 

Arthur 212 

The  Third  Reading 220 

A  First-Night  Performance 227 

Cheese-Soup 232 

The  Last  Book 237 

House  for  Sale! 243 

Yule-tide  Stories: 

&'  I.  A  Christmas-Eve  Revel  in  the  Marais  .    .    .  251 

II.  The  Three  Low  Masses 258 

The  Pope  is  Dead 270 

Gastronomic  Scenes 277 

A  Sea-side  Harvest 283 

The  Emotions  of  a  Young  Red  Partridge     ....  291 

The  Mirror 3°° 

The  Blind  Emperor: 

I.  Colonel  Von  Sifbqtdt 3°4 

II.    South  Germany 3°? 


Contents.  xxxv 

The  Blind  Emperor  {continued) :  Pagb 

III.  In  a  Drosky 311 

IV.  The  Blue  Country 315 

V.  A  Sail  across  Lake  Starnberg 319 

VI.  Bavaria 321 

VII.  The  Blind  Emperor 324 


PART   I. 
FANTASY   AND    HISTORY. 


MONDAY    TALES. 


THE   LAST  LESSON. 
A  YOUNG  ALSATIAN'S   NARRATIVE. 

That  morning  it  wa~  quite  late  before  I  started 
for  school,  and  I  was  terribly  afraid  I  should  be 
scolded,  for  Monsieur  Hamel  had  told  us  that  he 
would  question  us  upon  participles,  and  I  did  not 
know  the  first  thing  about  them.  For  a  moment 
I  thought  of  escaping  from  school  and  roving 
through  the  fields. 

The  day  was  so  warm,  so  clear !  The  blackbirds 
were  whistling  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods.  In 
Rippert  Meadow,  behind  the  sawmill,  the  Prus- 
sians were  drilling.  'Ml  these  things  were  far 
more  attractive  to  me  than  the  rule  for  the  use  of 
participles.  But  I  mustered  up  strength  to  resist 
temptation,  and  hurried  on  to  school. 

As  I  reached  the  town  hall,  I  saw  a  ^roup  of 
people;  they  loitered  before  the  little  grating, 
reading  the  placards  posted  upon  it.  For  two 
years  every  bit  of  bad  news  had  been  announced 
to  us  from  that  grating.  There  we  read  what  bat- 
tles had  been  lost,  what  requisitions  made ;  there 
we  learned  what  orders   had   issued    from    head- 


2  Monday    Tales. 

quarters.  And  though  I  did  not  pause  with  the 
resL,  I  wondered  to  myself,  "  What  can  be  the 
matter  now?  " 

As  I  ran  across  the  square,  Wachter,  the  black- 
smith, who,  in  company  with  his  apprentice,  was 
absorbed  in  reading  the  nottce,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Not  so  fast,  child  !  You  will  reach  your  school 
soon  enough !  " 

I  believed  he  was  making  game  of  me,  and  I  was 
quite  out  of  breath  when  I  entered  Monsieur 
Hamel's  small  domain. 

Now,  at  the  beginning  of  the  session  there  was 
usually  such  an  uproar  that  it  could  be  heard  as 
far  as  the  street.  Desks  were  opened  and  shut, 
lessons  recited  at  the  top  of  our  voices,  all 
shouting  together,  each  of  us  stopping  his  ears 
that  he  might  hear  better.  Then  the  master's  big 
ruler  would  descend  upon  his  desk,  and  he  would 
say,— 

"  Silence !  " 

I  counted  upon  making  my  entrance  in  the  midst 
of  the  usual  babel  and  reaching  my  seat  unob- 
served, but  upon  this  particular  morning  all  was 
hushed.  Sabbath  stillness  reigned.  Through  the 
open  window  I  could  see  that  my  comrades  had 
already  taken  their  seats;  I  could  see  Monsieur 
Hamel  himself,  passing  back  and  forth,  his  for- 
midable iron  ruler  under  his  arm. 

I  must  open  that  door.  I  must  enter  in  the 
midst  of  that  deep  silence.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  I  grew  red  in  the  face,  and  terror  seized  me. 

But,  strangely  enough,  as  Monsieur  Hamel  scru- 


The  Last  Lesson,  3 

tinized  me,  there  was  no  anger  in  his  gaze.     He 
said  very  gently,  — 

"  Take  your  seat  quickly,  my  little  Franz.  We 
were  going  to  begin  without  you." 

I  climbed  over  the  bench,  and  seated  myself. 
But  when  I  had  recovered  a  little  from  my  fright,  I 
noticed  that  our  master  had  donned  his  beautiful 
green  frock-coat,  his  finest  frilled  shirt,  and  his 
embroidered  black  silk  calotte,  which  he  wore  only 
on  inspection  days,  or  upon  those  occasions  when 
prizes  were  distributed.  Moreover,  an  extraordi- 
nary solemnity  had  taken  possession  of  my  class- 
mates. But  the  greatest  surprise  of  all  came  when 
my  eye  fell  upon  the  benches  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  Usually  they  were  empty,  but  upon 
this  morning  the  villagers  were  seated  there,  sol- 
emn as  ourselves.  There  sat  old  Hauser,  with  his 
three-cornered  hat,  there  sat  the  venerable  mayor, 
the  aged  carrier,  and  other  personages  of  impor- 
tance. All  of  our  visitors  seemed  sad,  and  Hauser 
had  brought  with  him  an  old  primer,  chewed  at  the 
edges.  It  lay  wide  open  upon  his  knees,  his  big 
spectacles  reposing  upon  the  page. 

While  I  was  wondering  at  all  these  things,  Mon- 
sieur Hamel  had  taken  his  seat,  and  in  the  same 
grave  and  gentle  tone  in  which  he  had  greeted  me, 
he  said  to  us,  — 

"  My  children,  this  is  the  last  day  I  shall  teach 
you.  The  order  has  come  from  Berlin  that  hence- 
forth in  the  schools  of  Alsace  and  Lorraine  all  in- 
struction shall  be  given  in  the  German  tongue  only. 
Your  new  master  will  arrive  to-morrow.     To-day 


4  Monday  Tales, 

you  hear  the  last  lesson  you  will  receive  in  French, 
and  I  beg  you  will  be  most  attentive." 

My  "  last"  French  lesson  !  And  I  scarcely  knew 
how  to  write  !  Now  I  should  never  learn.  My 
education  must  be  cut  short.  How  I  grudged  at 
that  moment  every  minute  I  had  lost,  every  lesson 
I  had  missed  for  the  sake  of  hunting  birds'  nests 
or  making  slides  upon  the  Saar !  And  those  books 
which  a  moment  before  were  so  dry  and  dull,  so 
heavy  to  carry,  my  grammar,  my  Bible-history, 
seemed  now  to  wear  the  faces  of  old  friends,  whom 
I  could  not  bear  to  bid  farewell.  It  was  with  them 
as  with  Monsieur  Hamel,  the  thought  that  he  was 
about  to  leave,  that  I  should  see  him  no  more, 
made  me  forget  all  the  blows  of  his  ruler,  and  the 
many  punishments  I  had  received. 

Poor  man  !  It  was  in  honor  of  that  last  session 
that  he  was  arrayed  in  his  finest  Sunday  garb,  and 
now  I  began  to  understand  why  the  villagers  had 
gathered  at  the  back  of  the  class-room.  Their 
presence  at  such  a  moment  seemed  to  express  a 
regret  that  they  had  not  visited  that  school-room 
oftener ;  it  was  their  way  of  telling  our  master  they 
thanked  him  for  his  forty  years  of  faithful  service, 
and  desired  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  land  whose 
empire  was  departing. 

I  was  busied  with  these  reflections  when  I  heard 
my  name  called.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  recite. 
Ah  !  what  would  I  not  have  given  then,  had  I  been 
able  to  repeat  from  beginning  to  end  that  fagaeus 
rule  for  the  use  of  participles  loudlj 
and  without  a  single  mistake;  but  I 


The  Last  Lesson.  5 

tangled  in  the  first  few  words,  and  remained  stand- 
ing at  my  seat,  swinging  from  side  to  side,  my 
heart  swelling.  I  dared  not  raise  my  head.  Mon- 
sieur Hamel  was  addressing  me. 

"  I  shall  not  chide  thee,  my  little  Franz ;  thy 
punishment  will  be  great  enough.  So  it  is !  We 
say  to  ourselves  each  day,  '  Bah !  I  have  time 
enough.  I  will  learn  to-morrow.'  And  now  see 
what  results.  Ah,  it  has  ever  been  the  greatest 
misfortune  of  our  Alsace  that  she  was  willing  to 
put  off  learning  till  To-morrow  !  And  now  these 
foreigners  can  say  to  us,  and  justly,  '  What !  you 
profess  to  be  Frenchmen,  and  can  neither  speak 
nor  write  your  own  language  ? '  And  in  all  this, 
my  poor  Franz,  you  are  not  the  chief  culprit. 
Each  of  us  has  something  to  reproach  himself 
with. 

"  Your  parents  have  not  shown  enough  anxiety 
about  having  you  educated.  They  preferred  to 
see  you  spinning,  or  tilling  the  soil,  since  that 
brought  them  in  a  few  more  sous.  And  have  I 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  myself?  Did  I 
not  often  send  you  to  water  my  garden  when  you 
should  have  been  at  your  tasks  ?  And  if  I  wished 
to  go  trout-fishing,  was  my  conscience  in  the  least 
disturbed  when  I  gave  you  a  holiday?  " 

One  topic  leading  to  another,  Monsieur  Hamel 
began  to  speak  of  the  French  language,  saying 
it  was  the  strongest,  clearest,  most  beautiful  lan- 
guage in  the  world,  which  we  must  keep  as  our 
heritage,  never  allowing  it  to  be  forgotten,  telling 
us  that  when  a  nation  has  become  enslaved,  she 


6  Monday  Tales. 

holds  the  key  which  shall  unlock  her  prison  as 
long  as  she  preserves  her  native  tongue.1 

Then  he  took  a  grammar,  and  read  our  lesson 
to  us,  and  I  was  amazed  to  see  how  well  I  under- 
stood. Everything  he  said  seemed  so  very  simple, 
so  easy !  I  had  never,  I  believe,  listened  to  any 
one  as  I  listened  to  him  at  that  moment,  and  never 
before  had  he  shown  so  much  patience  in  his  ex- 
planations. It  really  seemed  as  if  the  poor  man, 
anxious  to  impart  everything  he  knew  before  he 
took  leave  of  us,  desired  to  strike  a  single  blow 
that  might  drive  all  his  knowledge  into  our  heads 
at  once. 

The  lesson  was  followed  by  writing.  For  this 
occasion  Monsieur  Hamel  had  prepared  some 
copies  that  were  entirely  new,  and  upon  these  were 
written  in  a  beautiful  round  hand,  "  France,  Alsace! 
France,  Alsace  /" 

These  words  were  as  inspiring  as  the  sight  of 
the  tiny  flags  attached  to  the  rod  of  our  desks.  It 
was  good  to  see  how  each  one  applied  himself,  and 
how  silent  it  was  !  Not  a  sound  save'  the  scratch- 
ing of  pens  as  they  touched  our  papers.  Once, 
indeed,  some  cockchafers  entered  the  room,  but  no 
one  paid  the  least  attention  to  them,  not  even  the 
tiniest  pupil;  for  the  youngest  were  absorbed  in 
tracing  their  straight  strokes  as  earnestly  and  con- 
scientiously as  if  these  too  were  written  in  French ! 
On  the  roof  of  the  schoolhouse  the  pigeons  were 
cooing  softly,  and  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  listened, 

1  "  S'il  tient  sa  langue  il  tient  la  cle  qui  de  ses  chaines  le 
delivre."  F.  Mistral. 


The  Last  Lesson,  7 

"And  must  they  also  be  compelled  to  sing  in 
German?  " 

From  time  to  time,  looking  up  from  my  page,  I 
saw  Monsieur  Hamel,  motionless  in  his  chair,  his 
eyes  riveted  upon  each  object  about  him,  as  if  he 
desired  to  fix  in  his  mind,  and  forever,  every  detail 
of  his  little  school.  Remember  that  for  forty  years 
he  had  been  constantly  at  his  post,  in  that  very 
school-room,  facing  the  same  playground.  Little 
had  changed.  The  desks  and  benches  were  pol- 
ished and  worn,  through  long  use ;  the  walnut-trees 
in  the  playground  had  grown  taller;  and  the 
hop-vine  he  himself  had  planted  curled  its  tendrils 
about  the  windows,  running  even  to  the  roof.  What 
anguish  must  have  filled  the  poor  man's  heart,  as 
he  thought  of  leaving  all  these  things,  and  heard 
his  sister  moving  to  and  fro  in  the  room  overhead, 
busied  in  fastening  their  trunks  !  For  on  the  mor- 
row they  were  to  leave  the  country,  never  to 
return.  Nevertheless  his  courage  did  not  falter; 
not  a  single  lesson  was  omitted.  After  writing 
came  history,  and  then  the  little  ones  sang  their 
"  Ba,  Be,  Bi,  Bo,  Bu"  together.  Old  Hauser,  at 
the  back  of  the  room,  had  put  on  his  spectacles, 
and,  holding  his  primer  in  both  hands,  was  spelling 
out  the  letters  with  the  little  ones.  He  too  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  task;  his  voice  trembled  with  emo- 
tion, and  it  was  so  comical  to  hear  him  that  we  all 
wanted  to  laugh  and  to  cry  at  the  same  moment. 
Ah  !   never  shall  I  forget  that  last  lesson  ! 

Suddenly  the  church  clock  struck  twelve,  and 
then  the  Angelus  was  heard. 


8  Monday  Tales, 

At  the  same  moment,  a  trumpet-blast  under  our 
window  announced  that  the  Prussians  were  return- 
ing from  drill.  Monsieur  Hamel  rose  in  his  chair. 
He  was  very  pale,  but  never  before  had  he  seemed 
to  me  so  tall  as  at  that  moment. 

"  My  friends  —  "  he  said,  "  my  friends  —  I  — 
I— •" 

But  something  choked  him.  He  could  not  finish 
his  sentence. 

Then  he  took  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  grasping  it 
with  all  his  strength,  wrote  in  his  largest  hand,  — 

"  Vive  La  France  !  " 

He  remained  standing  at  the  blackboard,  his 
head  resting  against  the  wall.  He  did  not  speak 
again,  but  a  motion  of  his  hand  said  to  us, — 

"  That  is  all.     You  are  dismissed." 


A  Game  of  Billiards, 


A  GAME  OF  BILLIARDS. 

Even  soldiers  are  exhausted  after  two  days' 
fighting,  especially  if  they  have  passed  the  night, 
knapsacks  upon  their  backs,  torrents  of  rain  de- 
scending upon  them.  And  yet  for  three  mortal 
hours  they  had  been  left  to  wait  in  the  puddles 
along  the  highway,  in  the  mire  of  fields  soaked 
with  rain. 

Heavy  with  fatigue,  weakened  by  the  effects  of 
previous  nights,  their  uniforms  drenched,  they 
pressed  closer  together  for  warmth  and  support. 
Here  and  there,  leaning  upon  a  neighbor's  knap- 
sack, a  man  had  fallen  asleep  standing ;  and  upon 
the  relaxed  faces  of  these  men,  overcome  by  sleep, 
might  be  read  more  plainly  than  before  the  traces 
which  weariness  and  privations  had  made.  In  the 
mud  and  rain,  without  fire,  without  food,  over- 
head a  sky  heavy  and  lowering  —  around  them,  on 
every  side,  the  enemy  !     Dismal  indeed  ! 

What  are  they  doing  yonder?  What  is  going 
on? 

The  guns,  their  mouths  turned  towards  the 
woods,  seem  to  be  lying  in  wait.  The  mitrail- 
leuses from  their  hiding-places  stare  fixedly  at  the 
horizon.  All  is  ready  for  an  attack.  Why  is  none 
made?     For  what  are  they  waiting? 


IO  Monday  Tales. 

They  await  orders  from  headquarters,  but  none 
come. 

And  yet  it  is  only  a  short  distance  to  headquar- 
ters, to  that  beautiful  Louis  XIII.  chateau  whose 
red-brick  walls,  washed  by  the  rain,  are  seen  half- 
way up  the  hill,  glistening  through  the  thickets. 
Truly  a  princely  dwelling,  well  worthy  of  bearing 
the  fanion  of  a  Marshal  of  France.  Separated 
from  the  main  road  by  a  big  trench  and  a  ramp  of 
stone,  are  green,  smooth-shaven  lawns  extending 
even  to  the  stone  steps  of  the  chateau,  and  bor- 
dered with  vases  of  flowers.  On  the  side  of  the 
house  farthest  away  from  the  road,  the  daylight 
darts  through  the  leafage  of  the  arbors,  making 
bright  openings  in  them.  Upon  an  artificial  pond 
which  sparkles  like  a  mirror,  swans  are  swimming, 
and  under  the  pagoda-shaped  roof  of  a  large  aviary 
peacocks  and  golden  pheasants  strut  about,  spread- 
ing their  wings  and  sending  their  shrill  cries  through 
the  foliage.  Though  the  owners  of  the  house  have 
departed,  there  is  nowhere  a  perceptible  sign  of 
that  ruin  and  utter  desolation  which  war  brings  in 
its  train.  Under  the  oriflamme  of  the  chief  of 
the  army  not  the  smallest  flower  dotting  the  lawn 
has  been  destroyed,  and  it  is  indescribably  charm- 
ing to  discover,  so  near  the  field  of  battle,  that  calm 
and  opulence  that  result  from  systematic  care,  —  to 
observe  such  evenly  trimmed  shrubberies,  such 
silent  avenues  of  shade.  The  rain,  which  in  its 
descent  elsewhere  has  rutted  the  roads  and  heaped 
them  with  mire,  in  this  quarter  has  been  nothing 
more  than  an  aristocratic  shower.     Nothing  vulgar 


A  Game  of  Billiards,  I  i 

about  it.  It  has  revived  the  red  tints  of  the  bricks, 
the  verdure  of  the  lawns,  it  has  added  fresh  lustre 
to  the  leaves  of  the  orange-trees,  to  the  swans' 
white  plumage.  Everything  glistens.  The  scene 
is  peaceful.  In  fact,  were  it  not  for  the  flag  float- 
ing from  the  top  of  the  roof,  and  the  sight  of  two 
sentinels  before  the  gate,  one  would  never  believe 
headquarters  were  here. 

The  horses  are  resting  in  the  stables ;  here  and 
there  officers'  servants  are  seen,  and  orderlies  in 
undress,  lounging  about  the  kitchens  of  the  chateau, 
and  now  and  then  a  gardener  tranquilly  dragging 
his  rake  through  the  sand  of  the  grounds. 

In  the  dining-room,  whose  windows  front  the 
entrance  of  the  chateau,  is  seen  a  table  partly 
cleared,  bottles  uncorked,  glasses  tarnished,  empty 
and  dimmed,  resting  upon  the  wrinkled  cloth, — 
\n  short,  every  indication  that  the  repast  is  ended. 
The  guests  have  departed,  but  in  a  side  room 
loud  voices  are  heard,  peals  of  laughter,  the  rolling 
of  billiard  balls,  and  the  clinking  of  glasses.  The 
Marshal  has  just  started  upon  his  game,  and  that 
is  why  the  army  is  waiting  for  orders.  Once  the 
Marshal  has  begun,  the  heavens  might  fall,  but 
nothing  on  earth  would  hinder  him  from  finishing 
his  game. 

For  if  the  mighty  soldier  has  a  single  weakness, 
it  is  his  fondness  for  billiards.  There  he  stands,  as 
grave  as  though  a  battle  had  begun ;  he  is  in  full 
uniform,  his  breast  covered  with  decorations;  his 
repast,  the  grog  he  has  drunken,  and  the  excite- 
ment of  the  game  animate  him.     His  eyes  sparkle^ 


12  Monday   Tales. 

and  his  cheek-bones  are  flushed.  About  him 
gather  his  aides-de-camp,  most  assiduous  in  their 
attentions,  deferential,  and  overcome  with  admi- 
ration at  each  of  his  shots.  When  the  Marshal 
makes  a  point,  they  rush  towards  the  mark.  Is 
the  Marshal  thirsty?  Each  one  desires  to  prepare 
his  grog !  Such  a  rustling  of  epaulettes  and  pa- 
naches, such  a  rattling  of  crosses  and  aiguillettes ! 
How  they  bow  and  smile,  these  courtiers  !  What 
elegance  and  charm  of  manner  !  And  then  to  see 
such  embroideries,  so  many  new  uniforms,  in  this 
lofty  chamber  carved  in  oak,  opening  upon  parks 
and  courts  of  honor !  It  reminds  one  of  those 
autumns  of  Compiegne,  and  makes  him  forget  for 
a  moment  those  figures  in  muddied  cloaks,  gathered 
yonder  in  the  roads,  making  such  sombre  groups, 
as  they  wait  in  the  rain. 

The  Marshal's  adversary  is  an  officer  of  his  staff, 
a  little  captain  who  curls  and  laces  and  wears  light 
gloves;  he  is  an  excellent  shot  at  billiards,  and 
could  beat  all  the  marshals  on  earth,  but  he  under- 
stands how  to  keep  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
his  chief,  and  exercises  all  his  skill  in  playing  so 
that  he  shall  neither  win,  nor  seem  to  lose,  too 
readily.  Evidently  an  officer  with  an  eye  for  the 
future. 

Attention,  young  man,  look  out !  The  Marshal 
is  five  points  ahead.  If  you  can  end  the  game  as 
you  have  begun  it,  your  promotion  is  surer  than  it 
would  be,  were  you  standing  outside  with  the 
others,  beneath  those  torrents  of  water  that  darken 
the  horizon.     It  would  be  a  pity,  too,  to  soil  that 


A   Game  of  Billiards.  1 3 


fine  uniform,  and  tarnish  the  gold  of  its  aiguillettes, 
waiting  for  orders  that  never  come. 

The  game  is  extremely  interesting.  The  balls 
roll,  graze  each  other,  and  pass;  they  rebound. 
Every  moment  the  play  grows  more  exciting. 
But  suddenly  a  flash  of  light  is  seen  in  the  sky  and 
the  report  of  a  cannon  is  heard.  A  heavy,  rum- 
bling sound  shakes  the  windows.  Every  one  starts 
and  casts  an  uneasy  glance  about  him.  The  Mar- 
shal alone  remains  unmoved.  He  sees  nothing, 
hears  nothing,  for,  leaning  over  the  table,  h£  is  about 
to  make  a  magnificent  draw-shot.  Draw-shots  are 
his  forte ! 

But  again  that  flash,  and  again !  From  the  can- 
non fresh  reports,  and  nearer  together  now.  The 
aides-de-camp  run  to  the  window.  Can  it  be  that 
the  Prussians  are  attacking? 

"  Let  them !  "  says  the  Marshal,  chalking  his 
cue.     "  Your  turn,  captain  !  " 

The  staff  thrills  with  admiration.  Turenne  asleep 
upon  a  gun-carriage  was  nothing  compared  to  this 
marshal,  so  calmly  absorbed  in  his  game  at  the 
moment  of  action  !  But  all  this  time  the  tumult  in- 
creases. With  the  shock  of  the  cannon  mingles 
the  rattling  of  the  mitrailleuses,  and  the  rumbling 
of  volley  upon  volley ;  a  reddish  cloud  dark  at  the 
edges  rises  from  the  further  end  of  the  lawn.  All 
the  rear  of  the  park  is  on  fire.  Frightened  pea- 
cocks and  pheasants  clamor  in  the  aviary,  Arabian 
horses,  away  in  the  stables,  scent  the  powder  and 
rear  in  their  stalls.  At  headquarters  a  general 
commotion  begins.      Despatch   follows   despatch. 


14  Monday  Tales. 

Messengers  arrive  at  a  gallop.     Everywhere  they 
are  asking  for  the  Marshal. 

But  the  Marshal  is  unapproachable.  Have  I  not 
told  you  that  nothing  in  the  world  could  hinder 
him  from  finishing  a  game  once  begun? 

"  Your  play,  captain  —  " 

But  the  captain  is  distracted.  Ah !  Youth  is 
youth.  He  loses  his  head,  forgets  what  he  is 
about,  and  makes  two  successive  runs  which  almost 
win  the  game  for  him.  And  now  the  Marshal  is 
furious.  Surprise  and  indignation  are  visible  upon 
his  manly  features.  At  this  very  moment  a  horse 
rushes  into  the  courtyard  at  full  speed  and  drops 
exhausted.  An  aide-de-camp,  covered  with  mud, 
forces  the  sentry,  makes  one  bound  over  the  stone 
steps,  crying,  "  Marshal,  Marshal !  "  And  this  is 
his  reception  :  the  Marshal,  red  as  a  cock,  and 
swelling  with  anger,  appears  at  the  window,  cue  in 
hand. 

"  Who  is  there?  What  is  it?  Is  there  no  sentry 
here?" 

"  But,  Marshal  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  —  later  —  let  them  wait  for  my 
orders  —  in  God's  name  !  " 

And  the  window  closes  with  a  bang. 

Let  them  wait  for  his  orders  !  And  that  is  ex 
actly  what  they  are  doing,  these  poor  fellows. 
The  wind  drives  rain  and  grapeshot  in  their  faces. 
Whole  battalions  are  slaughtered,  whilst  others, 
perfectly  useless,  stand  bearing  arms,  unable  to 
understand  why  they  remain  inactive.  Nothing 
else  to  do.     They  wait  for  orders.     But  men  may 


A  Game  of  Billiards.  15 

die  without  word  of  command,  and  these  men  die 
in  hundreds,  falling  behind  bushes,  dropping  in 
trenches  in  front  of  that  great  silent  chateau.  And 
even  after  death,  the  grapeshot  continues  to 
lacerate  their  bodies,  and  from  those  gaping  wounds 
flows  a  silent  stream,  —  the  generous  blood  of 
France.  And  above,  yonder,  in  the  billiard-room, 
all  is  as  excited  as  upon  the  battle-field,  for  the 
Marshal  has  regained  his  advantage,  and  the  little 
captain  is  playing  like  a  lion. 

Seventeen  !  eighteen  !  nineteen  !  Scarcely  time 
to  mark  the  points.  The  sound  of  battle  grows 
nearer  and  nearer.  The  Marshal  has  but  one 
more  point  to  play  for.  Already  shells  are  falling 
in  the  park.  One  has  burst  in  the  pond.  Its 
glassy  sheet  reddens,  and  a  terrified  swan  is 
seen  swimming  amid  a  whirl  of  bloody  plumage. 
And  now  the  last  shot. 

And  then  —  deep  silence.  Only  the  sound  of 
rain  falling  upon  the  leafage  of  the  arbors,  only  an 
indistinct  rumbling  noise  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
along  the  muddy  roads  a  sound  like  the  tramping 
of  hurrying  herds.  The  army  is  utterly  routed. 
The  Marshal  has  won  his  game. 


1 6  Monday   Tales. 


THE  VISION   OF  THE  JUDGE   OF 
COLMAR. 

Before  he  had  taken  the  oath  of  allegiance  to 
Emperor  William,  there  was  nowhere  a  happier 
man  than  little  Judge  Dollinger  of  the  Court  of 
Colmar;  when  he  arrived  in  the  court-room,  full- 
lipped,  big-bellied,  his  toque  pushed  jauntily  side- 
wise,  his  triple  chin  resting  placidly  upon  his 
muslin  neckband,  he  seemed  to  say,  as  he  seated 
himself,  "  Ah !  a  nice  little  nap  I  shall  have !  " 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  stretch  his  plump 
little  legs,  burying  himself  in  his  great  armchair, 
while  he  reposed  upon  that  fair,  soft  leather 
cushion  to  which  he  owed  the  fact  that  his  com- 
plexion was  as  fresh  as  ever,  and  his  temper  as 
unruffled,  although  he  had  occupied  a  judge's  seat 
for  more  than  thirty  years. 

Unfortunate  Dollinger ! 

From  the  moment  he  touched  that  leather  cir- 
cumference he  was  lost.  He  found  it  so  comfort- 
able, grew  so  attached  to  that  cushion  of  moleskin, 
that  sooner  than  budge  from  it,  he  became  a  Prus- 
sian. Emperor  William  said  to  him,  "  Keep  your 
seat,  Monsieur  Dollinger!  "  and  Dollinger  kept  it; 
and  here  we  behold  him  at  the  Court  of  Golmar, 
dispensing  justice  as  ably  as  ever,  but  in  the  name 
of  His  Berlinese  Majesty. 


The    Vision  of  the  Judge  of  Colmar.     lj 

About  him  nothing  has  changed,  —  the  same  tri- 
bunal, faded  and  dull,  the  same  court-room,  with  its 
shiny  benches  and  hum  of  lawyers'  voices,  the  same 
dim,  subdued  light  falling  through  the  high  win- 
dows with  their  serge  curtains,  the  same  majestic 
figure  of  the  Christ,  covered  with  dust,  His  head 
bowed,  His  arms  outstretched.  But  the  Court  of 
Colmar  has  lost  no  whit  of  its  former  dignity  in 
passing  over  to  Prussia.  There  is  still  an  Em- 
peror's bust  back  of  the  judges'  bench.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  all  these  things,  Dollinger  does  not  feel  at 
home.  Vainly  he  rolls  from  side  to  side  in  his 
armchair,  buries  himself  in  it  angrily:  he  can  no 
longer  enjoy  those  nice  little  naps  of  other  days ; 
and  when  he  chances,  as  of  old,  to  fall  asleep  at  a 
hearing,  he  has  frightful  dreams ! 

Dollinger  dreams  that  he  is  seated  upon  a  high 
mountain ;  it  reminds  him  somewhat  of  Honeck, 
or  the  Balloon  of  Alsace.  What  is  he  doing  there 
alone,  in  his  judge's  robe,  at  that  vast  height  where 
nothing  can  be  seen  but  stunted  trees  and  swarms 
of  flies?  Dollinger  does  not  know  why  he  is  there. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  rise  upon  him ;  he  trembles  in 
suspense,  and  suffers  all  the  agony  of  a  nightmare. 

Across  the  Rhine,  behind  the  firs  of  the  Black 
Forest,  the  sun  is  rising,  large  and  red ;  and  as  it 
rises,  below,  in  the  valleys  of  Munster  and  Thann, 
is  heard  from  one  end  of  Alsace  to  the  other  an 
indistinct  rumble,  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  of 
wagons  in  motion ;  it  grows  louder  and  nearer. 
Dollinger's  heart  sinks  within  him.  Soon,  upon 
the  long,  winding  road  ascending  the  sides  of  the 


1 8  Monday  Tales. 

mountain,  the  Judge  of  Colmar  sees  approaching 
him  a  mournful,  interminable  train ;  all  Alsace  has 
chosen  this  pass  of  the  Vosges  as  the  starting-point 
of  its  solemn  emigration  ! 

Leading  the  procession,  come  long  wagons  drawn 
by  four  oxen,  those  long,  open  wagons  which  at 
harvest-time  are  seen  overflowing  with  sheaves; 
now,  however,  they  are  loaded  with  furniture,  tools, 
and  luggage  of  all  sorts.  Big  beds,  tall  presses, 
calico  hangings,  chests  and  spinning-wheels,  chil- 
dren's chairs,  ancestral  armchairs,  piles  of  ancient 
relics  dragged  from  their  corners,  and  scattering 
to  every  wind  along  the  highway  the  sacred  dust 
of  the  hearth.  Entire  households  depart  in  these 
wagons,  groaning  as  they  advance.  The  oxen  are 
scarcely  able  to  drag  their  burden,  for  it  seems  as 
if  the  very  earth  clung  to  the  wheels,  as  if  these 
handfuls  of  dust  clinging  to  plough  and  harrow, 
to  rake  and  pickaxe,  increased  the  burden  they 
bore,  —  as  though  this  departure  were  indeed  an 
uprooting  of  the  soil. 

Then  followed  a  silent  train  of  people,  of  all  con- 
ditions and  ages:  the  aged  grandfather  with  his 
three-cornered  hat,  —  tremulous,  leaning  upon  his 
staff;  boys  with  flaxen  curls,  a  single  suspender 
supporting  their  trousers  of  fustian ;  the  paralytic 
grandmother  stout  lads  are  bearing  upon  their 
shoulders;  mothers,  pressing  their  nursing  babes 
closer  to  the  breast;  all  are  there,  the  brave- 
hearted,  and  the  infirm,  soldiers  to  be,  and  those 
who  have  faced  the  horrors  of  many  a  battle-field ; 
cuirassiers,  who    have   lost   their  limbs,   dragging 


The   Vision  of  the  Judge  of  Colmar,     19 

themselves  upon  crutches ;  artillery-men,  emaciated, 
broken-down,  the  damps  of  the  casemates  of  Span- 
dau  still  clinging  to  their  uniforms.  And  all  this 
host  moves  on  its  way  with  heads  erect;  at  the 
side  of  that  very  road  over  which  they  are  passing, 
the  Judge  of  Colmar  is  seated,  and  as  they  pass 
him  by  he  reads  upon  each  averted  face  an  awful 
look  of  anger  and  loathing. 

Oh,  unhappy  Dollinger !  he  longs  to  hide,  to 
flee,  but  it  is  impossible.  For  his  armchair  can- 
not be  moved  from  that  mountain,  and  his  leather 
cushion  is  fastened  to  the  armchair,  and  he  is  as 
firmly  attached  to  that  leather  cushion.  And  now 
he  understands  that  a  sort  of  pillory  stands  there, 
and  he  is  in  it,  and  his  pillory  has  been  erected 
so  high  in  order  that  all  the  world  may  witness 
his  shame. 

The  emigrants  move  on,  village  after  village; 
those  of  the  Swiss  frontier  leading  enormous  herds 
of  cattle ;  those  of  the  Saar  carrying  their  heavy 
iron  tools  in  ore-wagons.  Then  the  larger  towns 
arrive,  spinners,  tanners,  weavers  and  warpers, 
burghers  and  priests,  rabbis,  magistrates,  black 
robes  and  red  robes.  The  tribunal  of  Colmar 
appears,  its  venerable  president  at  the  head.  And 
Dollinger,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  seeks  to  hide 
his  face,  but  his  hands  are  paralyzed ;  tries  to  close 
his  eyes,  but  his  eyelids  are  stiff  and  immovable. 
There  he  is  compelled  to  remain,  the  most  ob- 
served of  observers ;  he  may  not  be  spared  a  single 
one  of  those  contemptuous  glances  which  his  col- 
leagues cast  at  him  as  they  pass. 


20  Monday  Tales. 

A  judge  in  the  pillory !  Terrible  indeed  !  And, 
worst  of  all,  all  his  dear  ones  are  in  that  concourse, 
and  not  one  of  them  appears  to  recognize  him.  His 
wife,  his  children,  pass  before  him,  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground.  It  would  seem  that  they  too  are 
ashamed  of  him  !  Even  little  Michel,  whom  he  loves 
so  dearly,  passes  him  by,  never  to  return,  and  casts 
not  a  single  glance  in  his  direction.  But  the  aged 
president  pauses  a  moment,  and  whispers  to  him,  — 

"  Come  with  us,  Dollinger.  Do  not  remain 
there,  my  friend  !  " 

But  Dollinger  is  unable  to  rise.  He  tries  to  move 
his  limbs ;  he  calls.  All  day  long  the  procession 
moves  on ;  and  as  the  daylight  fades,  it  has  disap- 
peared in  the  distance,  and  silence  descends  upon 
those  fair  valleys  dotted  with  factories  and  belfry 
towers.  All  Alsace  has  departed.  Only  the  Judge 
of  Colmar  remains.  And  there  he  sits  at  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  riveted  in  his  pillory,  immovable. 

Suddenly  the  scene  changes.  Yew-trees  are 
seen,  black  crosses,  rows  of  tombs,  and  an  assem- 
blage of  mourners.  It  is  the  cemetery  of  Colmar. 
Some  one  of  note  has  come  to  his  last  resting-place. 
All  the  bells  of  the  city  are  tolling.  Councillor 
Dollinger  is  dead  !  That  which  honor  could  not 
effect,  death  has  accomplished.  It  has  unscrewed 
the  immovable  magistrate  from  his  leather  cushion, 
and  he  lies  at  full  length,  this  man  whose  sole 
ambition  was  to   remain  seated  forever ! 

What  sensation  more  horrible  than  to  dream 
that  one  is  dead  and  his  own  chief  mourner?  His 
heart  overcome  with  grief,  Dollinger  assists  at  his 


The   Vision  of  the  Judge  of  Colmar.     21 

own  burial-service.  And  that  which  afflicts  him 
more  than  his  death  is  the  fact  that  in  this  immense 
crowd  which  presses  about  him  is  neither  friend 
nor  relative.  No  one  from  Colmar,  —  only  the 
Prussians !  Prussian  soldiers  escort  the  bier ; 
Prussian  magistrates  are  the  chief  mourners ;  and 
the  words  that  are  spoken  over  his  grave  are 
Prussian;  and  the  cold,  cold  earth  thrown  over 
him  is,  alas  !  Prussian  earth.  Suddenly  the  crowd 
stands  respectfully  aside.  A  magnificent  white 
cuirassier  approaches,  concealing  under  his  cloak 
something  which  looks  not  unlike  a  crown  of  im- 
mortelles.    All  about  him  voices  are  heard,  saying, 

"  Look  !  There  is  Bismarck !  There  is  Bis- 
marck !  " 

And  the  Judge  of  Colmar  thinks  sadly,  "  A  great 
honor,  Count,  you  bestow  upon  me,  but  if  I  only 
had  my  little  Michel  —  " 

He  does  not  end  his  sentence.  A  mighty  burst 
of  laughter  interrupts  him,  —  wild,  mad,  uncon- 
trollable laughter,  scandalizing  to  hear. 

"What  are  they  laughing  about?"  wonders  the 
terrified  judge.  He  raises  himself  and  looks.  It 
is  his  cushion,  his  own  leather  cushion,  that  Count 
Bismarck  has  placed  religiously  upon  his  grave, 
and  around  its  moleskin  circumference  runs  this 
inscription,  — 

To  JUDGE   DOLLINGER, 

The  Glory  of  the  Bench,1 
Souvenirs  and  regrets ! 

*  " La  Magistrature  Assise"  The  play  upon  words  is  scarcely 
translatable. 


22  Monday   Tales. 

From  one  end  of  the  cemetery  to  the  other  ring 
peals  of  laughter,  convulsive  laughter;  and  the 
boisterous  mirth  of  the  Prussians  echoes  even  tc 
the  floor  of  the  vault  where  the  dead  man  lies 
weeping  with  shame,  overwhelmed,  covered  with 
endless  ridicule. 


The  Boy  Spy.  23 


/ 


THE   BOY  SPY. 


They  called  him  Stenne,  "  little  Stenne."  He 
was  a  child  of  Paris,  puny  and  pale.  He  might 
have  been  ten,  possibly  fifteen  years  old.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  the  age  of  such  midges.  His  mother 
was  dead,  and  his  father,  an  old  marine,  was  on 
guard  in  the  Quartier  du  Temple.  Babies  and 
nursemaids,  old  women  carrying  their  camp-stools, 
poor  mothers,  in  short,  all  that  portion  of  Paris  that 
jogs  along  on  foot,  found  a  safe  retreat  from 
carriages  in  those  gardens  bordered  by  sidewalks ; 
they  were  well  acquainted  with  Father  Stenne,  and 
they  adored  him.  For  they  knew  well  that,  in 
spite  of  that  ferocious  mustache,  the  terror  of 
stray  dogs  and  of  many  a  lounger  who  frequented 
the  benches,  the  old  soldier's  smile  was  full  of 
kindness,  almost  maternal  in  its  tenderness ;  and  to 
see  that  smile,  one  had  merely  to  ask  the  good 
man,  "  How  is  your  little  boypjf 

For  Father  Stenne  loved  hi?  boy  dearly.  It 
gladdened  his  heart  to  have  the  little  fellow  call  for 
him  towards  evening,  after  school  was  out;  and 
together  they  promenaded  the  walks,  stopping  at 
every  bench  to  reply  to  the  polite  greetings  of  the 
frequenters  of  the  gardens. 

But,  alas  !  after  the  siege  began,  all  was  changed. 
Father  Stenne's  square  was  closed,  and  petroleum 


24  Monday  Tales. 

was  stored  there ;  the  poor  man  was  compelled  to 
be  on  guard  ceaselessly,  passing  his  days  in  those 
deserted  groves,  where  everything  was  in  confusion 
and  disorder.  He  was  not  allowed  even  a  smoke. 
He  could  not  see  his  boy  until  he  reached  home, 
late  in  the  evening.  You  should  have  seen  his 
mustache  when  he  mentioned  the  Prussians !  but 
little  Stenne  was  not  at  all  averse  to  this  new 
life. 

For  these  gamins  a  siege  furnishes  considerable 
diversion.  No  more  lessons,  no  more  school ! 
Vacation  every  day,  and  the  streets  full  of  life  as 
a  field  on  a  fair-day ! 

The  boy  roamed  the  streets  all  day  long,  and 
never  went  in  until  nightfall.  He  accompanied  the 
battalions  of  the  neighborhood  as  they  marched 
to  the  rampart,  with  a  preference  for  those  where 
the  bands  played  the  liveliest  music,  and  on  that 
subject  little  Stenne  was  quite  an  authority.  He 
would  tell  you  with  an  air  of  conviction  that  the 
band  of  the  Ninety-sixth  did  not  amount  to  much, 
but  that  of  the  Fifty-fifth  was  excellent.  When  he 
was  not  on  the  march,  he  would  watch  the  mobiles 
at  drill ;  and  then  there  were  those  hours  of  waiting, 
when,  his  basket  under  his  arm,  he  joined  the  long 
lines  of  people  forming  in  front  of  butchers'  and 
bakers'  shops,  in  the  unlighted  streets,  in  the  dull 
gray  dawn  of  those  winter  days.  And  there,  feet  in 
the  water,  one  stood,  and  made  new  acquaintances. 
Politics  were  discussed,  and,  being  the  son  of 
Monsieur  Stenne,  he  was  asked  his  opinion  on 
every  hand.     But  most  amusing  of  all  he  found 


The  Boy  Spy.  25 

those  bouchon  1-games,  especially  that  famous  game 
of  galocke,  which  the  Breton  soldiers  had  made 
quite  fashionable  during  the  siege.  When  little 
Stenne  was  not  at  the  rampart  or  waiting  in  front 
of  some  baker's  shop,  you  were  sure  of  finding 
him  watching  a  game  of  galoche  in  the  Place  du 
Chateau-d'Eau.  Of  course  you  will  understand 
that  he  never  played  himself;  it  cost  too  much 
money.  He  contented  himself  merely  with  devour- 
ing the  players  with  his  eyes. 

A  big  fellow  who  wore  a  coat  and  blue  overalls, 
and  never  staked  less  than  a  hundred-sou  piece, 
excited  his  special  admiration.  Whenever  he  ran, 
one  could  hear  his  money  jingling  in  the  depths  of 
his  pockets. 

One  day,  picking, up  a  piece  of  money  which 
had  rolled  directly  in  front  of  little  Stenne's  feet, 
this  fellow  whispered  to  the  little  one,  — 

"  That  makes  you  squint,  eh?  Well,  now,  if  you 
like,  I  can  tell  you  where  there  are  more  of  them." 

And  when  the  game  was  ended,  he  led  little 
Stenne  to  a  corner  of  the  Place,  and  proposed  the 
latter  should  join  him  in  selling  newspapers  to  the 
Prussians,  thirty  francs  for  each  trip  they  made. 
At  first  little  Stenne  indignantly  refused ;  and  for 
three  days  in  succession  he  was  not  seen  watching 
the  game,  —  three  terrible  days  for  him.  He  nei- 
ther ate  nor  slept.  At  night  he  saw  great  heaps 
of  galoches  lying  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  the 
floor    paved   with    shining    lines  of    hundred-sou 

1  Bouchon.  A  game  in  which  pieces  of  money  are  placed  upon 
a  cork,  —  which  is  to  be  knocked  over  with  a  quoit. 


26  Monday   Tales. 

pieces  !  The  temptation  was  too  strong ;  and  the 
fourth  day  he  returned  to  Chateau-d'Eau,  saw  the 
big  fellow  again,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  seduced. 

They  set  out  one  snowy  morning,  carrying  a 
canvas  bag,  their  newspapers  hidden  in  their 
blouses.  They  reached  the  Porte  de  Flandres  just 
before  daybreak.  His  companion  took  Stenne's 
hand,  and,  approaching  the  sentinel,  —  a  worthy 
sedentary,  with  a  red  nose  and  a  benevolent  air,  — 
he  said  in  a  whining  voice,  — 

"  Let  us  pass,  my  good  sir.  Our  mother  is  sick ; 
papa  is  dead.  We  are  going,  my  little  brother  and 
I,  to  dig  potatoes  in  the  field." 

He  began  to  cry.  Stenne,  feeling  very  much 
ashamed,  hung  his  head.  The  sentinel  looked  at 
both  of  them  for  a  moment,  then  glanced  at  the 
road,  white  and  deserted. 

"  Pass,  but  be  quick !  "  he  said,  standing  aside, 
and  then  they  found  themselves  on  the  Auber- 
villiers  road.     How  the  rascal  laughed  ! 

Vaguely,  as  if  in  a  dream,  little  Stenne  saw  fac- 
tory after  factory  turned  into  barracks,  deserted 
barricades  stuffed  with  mouldy  rags,  and  tall  chim- 
neys cutting  the  fog ;  but  from  those  chimney  tops, 
lost  in  the  sky,  no  smoke  ascended,  and  they  were 
dented  in  places.  Along  the  road  sentinels  were 
posted,  and  muffled  officers  stood,  looking  through 
their  field-glasses ;  small  tents  soaked  with  melted 
snow  were  pitched  in  front  of  the  dying  fires. 
Stenne's  companion  knew  the  road  well,  and  took 
a  cross-cut  to  avoid  passing  the  guard ;  but  they 
were  obliged  to  pass  the  advance-guard  of  sharp' 


The  Boy  Spy.  27 

shooters.  There  they  were  in  their  capes,  squatted 
in  the  bottom  of  a  watery  ditch  which  ran  along 
the  railroad  to  Soissons.  But  this  time  the  big 
fellow  tried  to  tell  his  story  all  in  vain.  They  were 
not  allowed  to  pass.  While  he  was  lamenting, 
there  issued  from  the  gate-keeper's  house  an  old 
sergeant,  white-haired  and  wrinkled,  who  looked 
not  unlike  Father  Stenne  himself. 

"  Come,  you  rascals,  don't  cry  any  more,"  he  said 
to  the  boys.  "  You  may  go  and  dig  your  potatoes, 
but  first  come  in  and  warm  yourselves  a  little ;  that 
young  vagabond  there  looks  as  if  he  were  frozen  !  " 

Alas  !  little  Stenne  way  not  trembling  from  cold, 
but  from  fear  and  shame.  Inside  they  found  some 
soldiers  squatting  around  a  wretched  fire;  a 
widow's  fire  it  might  well  have  been  called,  but  at 
its  warmth  they  were  endeavoring  to  thaw  out 
their  biscuits  at  the  point  of  their  bayonets.  They 
crowded  closer,  to  make  room  for  the  boys,  and 
gave  them  a  swallow  of  brandy  and  some  coffee. 
While  they  were  drinking,  an  officer  appeared  at 
the  door,  called  the  sergeant,  whispered  something 
in  a  very  low  voice,  and  suddenly  disappeared. 

"  Boys !  "  said  the  sergeant,  returning  with  a 
radiant  face,  'f  there  '11  be  fighting  jthis  night !  The 
watchword  of  the  Prussians  is  discovered.  This 
time  I  believe  we  shall  recapture  that  cursed 
Bourget." 

There  was  an  outburst  of  bravos  and  laughter, 
dancing  and  singing  and  polishing  of  sword- 
bayonets  ;  taking  advantage  of  the  general  uproar, 
the  boys  disappeared. 


28  Monday   Tales. 

When  they  had  passed  the  trench,  they  came  to 
the  open  plain,  and  at  its  extremity  ran  a  long 
white  wall,  pierced  with  loop-holes.  Towards  this 
wall  the  boys  directed  their  footsteps,  stopping  at 
every  step  and  making  believe  that  they  were 
gathering   potatoes. 

"  Let  us  return.  Don't  go  any  further,"  said 
little  Stenne,  again  and  again. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  pushed 
on  without  pause. 

Suddenly  they  heard  the  sharp  click  of  a  gun. 

"  Down !  "  said  the  elder,  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  He  lay  at  full  length,  and  whistled.  An 
answering  whistle  was  heard  through  the  snow. 
They  advanced  on  all  fours.  In  front  of  the  wall 
and  level  with  the  ground,  appeared  a  pair  of  yel- 
low mustachios,  surmounted  by  a  greasy  cap. 
Stenne's  companion  jumped  into  the  trench  and 
stood  by  the  Prussian's  side.  "  That 's  my  brother," 
he  said,  pointing  to  his  companion. 

This  brother  of  his  was  so  small  that  the  Prus- 
sian burst  out  laughing  as  he  looked  at  him,  and 
was  obliged  to  lift  him  in  his  arms  to  get  him  as 
far  as  the  breach. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  were  huge  earth- 
works, felled  trees,  black  holes  dug  in  the  snow, 
and  in  each  hole  was  a  head  like  the  first,  with  its 
yellow  mustaches,  which  quivered  with  laughter 
as  the  boys  passed  by.  In  one  spot  stood  a  gar- 
dener's house,  casemated  with  tree-trunks.  Down- 
stairs it  was  filled  with  soldiers  playing  cards  and 
making    soup    before    a    big    fire   which    burned 


\ 


The  Boy  Spy.  29 

merrily.  A  savory  odor  of  bacon  and  cabbage 
ascended.  How  different  all  this  from  the  sharp- 
shooters' bivouac !  Overhead  were  the  officers' 
quarters.  The  sound  of  a  piano  was  heard.  Cham- 
pagne flowed  freely.  When  the  Parisians  entered, 
a  joyous  hurrah  greeted  them.  They  distributed 
their  newspapers.  The  officers  made  the  boys 
drink  and  talk.  The  bearing  of  all  these  officers 
was  proud  and  insolent,  but  the  elder  of  the  boys 
amused  them  with  his  vulgar  wit  and  street-Arab's 
vocabulary.  They  roared  as  they  repeated  his 
words  after  him,  rolling  delightedly  in  the  mud  of 
Paris  he  had  brought  them. 

Little  Stenne  would  have  liked  to  put  in  a  word 
here  and  there,  to  show  them  he  was  no  fool,  but 
something  stopped  his  tongue.  Opposite  him,  apart 
from  the  rest,  sat  a  Prussian  who  was  older,  more 
serious  than  the  others.  He  was  reading,  or  seemed 
to  be,  but  his  eyes  never  left  the  two  boys.  There 
was  something  both  tender  and  reproachful  in  that 
look.  Had  this  man  a  child  of  his  own  at  home,  a 
child  of  the  same  age  as  Stenne,  and  did  his  look 
say,  "  I  would  rather  die  than  see  a  son  of  mine 
bent  on  such  an  errand  as  this"  ? 

From  the  moment  those  eyes  met  his,  Stenne 
felt  as  if  a  hand  had  laid  a  weight  upon  his  heart 
and  stopped  its  beating.  To  forget  his  agony,  he 
began  to  drink.  Soon  everything  swam  about  him. 
Amid  loud  bursts  of  laughter,  he  could  hear  in  a 
dazed  fashion  what  his  comrade  was  saying. 
The  latter  was  ridiculing  the  National  Guard ;  he 
mimicked    a   muster  in  the  Marais  and  a  night- 


30  Monday   Tales. 

alarm  on  the  ramparts.  Then  he  lowered  his  voice, 
the  officers  came  up  closer,  and  their  faces  grew 
grave.  The  young  wretch  was  about  to  warn  them 
of  the  intended  attack  of  the  sharpshooters. 

But  now  little  Stenne  roused  himself  in  a  fury. 
He  had  suddenly  sobered. 

"  Stop  that !  "  he  said.     "  I  won't  have  it." 

The  other  smiled  merely  and  continued.  Before 
he  had  finished,  all  the  officers  were  standing.  One 
of  them  showed  the  boys  the  door,  saying,  — 

"  Off  with  you  !  " 

They  began  to  talk  among  themselves  very 
rapidly,  and  in  German.  The  big  boy  marched 
out,  proud  as  a  doge,  jingling  his  money.  Stenne 
followed  him,  hanging  his  head.  And  as  he  passed 
by  the  Prussian  whose  glance  had  disturbed  his 
peace  of  mind  so  greatly,  he  heard  a  sad  voice 
saying,  — 

"  Bas  choli,  ga.     Bas  chdli!'  * 

Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

Once  on  the  plain  again,  the  boys  began  to  run, 
and  their  return  was  rapid.  Their  bag  was  full  of 
potatoes  the  Prussians  had  given  them,  and  carry- 
ing it  they  passed  the  trench  where  the  sharp- 
shooters were,  without  being  stopped.  The  men 
were  preparing  for  the  attack  of  the  coming  night. 
Troops  were  arriving  silently,  and  forming  behind 
the  walls.  The  old  sergeant  was  there,  busied  in 
arranging  his  men.  How  happy  he  looked  !  As 
the  boys  passed,  he  recognized  them  and  smiled 
kindly. 

1  "  That  was  a  mean  business  1  a  mean  business  I " 


The  Boy  Spy,  31 

Oh,  how  that  smile  tortured  little  Stenne ! 
For  a  moment  he  longed  to  cry  out,  "  Don't  go 
there  to-night !  We  have  betrayed  you."  But 
the  other  had  said,  "  If  you  speak,  we  shall  be 
shot,"  and  fear  kept  him  silent. 

At  La  Corneuve  they  went  into  a  deserted  house 
to  share  their  money.  Truth  compels  me  to  state 
that  the  division  was  an  honest  one,  and  that  when 
little  Stenne  heard  all  those  fine  franc-pieces 
rattling  in  his  blouse  and  thought  of  all  those 
games  of  galoche  which  he  saw  in  the  near  future, 
his  crime  did  not  so  much  appall  him. 

But  when  at  last  the  wretched  child  was  alone ! 
After  they  had  passed  the  gates  and  his  compan- 
ion left  him,  then  his  pockets  began  to  grow  heavy 
indeed.  And  the  hand  which  had  pressed  so 
heavily  upon  his  heart,  pressed  more  heavily  than 
ever.  And  Paris  no  longer  seemed  to  him  the 
same  Paris.  Passers-by  seemed  to  gaze  at  him 
severely,  as  if  they  knew  whence  he  came.  Even 
the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  and  the  flourish  of 
drums,  where  the  troops  were  drilling  along  the 
canal,  seemed  to  be  saying  that  one  word  "  Spy !  " 
At  last  he  reached  his  home,  glad  to  discover  that 
his  father  had  not  yet  returned.  He  ascended 
quickly  to  their  chamber,  and  hid  the  money  which 
weighed  him  down  so  heavily. 

Never  had  Father  Stenne  felt  more  amiably  dis- 
posed or  happier  than  he  did,  returning  home  that 
evening.  For  good  news  had  just  come  from  the 
country  outside  of  Paris  ;  affairs  were  going  better. 
And  as  he  ate,  the  old  soldier  looked  at  his  gun 


32  Monday  Tales. 

hanging  on  the  wall,  and  said  to  the  child,  with 
that  charming  smile  of  his,  — 

"  Well,  boy !  you  should  fight  the  Prussians  if 
you  were  old  enough  !  "  Towards  eight  o'clock  the 
cannonade  began. 

"  It  is  at  Aubervilliers.  They  are  fighting  at 
Bourget,"  said  the  worthy  man,  who  knew  all  his 
forts  well.  Little  Stenne  grew  pale,  and,  pretend- 
ing that  he  was  very  tired,  he  went  to  bed,  but  he 
could  not  sleep.  For  the  booming  of  the  cannons 
never  ceased.  He  pictured  to  himself  the  sharp- 
shooters, reaching  by  night  the  spot  where  they 
were  to  surprise  the  Prussians  and  falling  into  an 
ambuscade  themselves.  He  recalled  the  sergeant 
who  had  smiled  at  him,  and  thought  of  him  lying 
out  there  in  the  snow,  and  so  many,  so  many 
beside  him.  And  the  blood-money  was  there, 
concealed  under  his  pillow;  and  it  was  he,  the 
son  of  Monsieur  Stenne,  a  soldier  who  had  — 
tears  choked  him.  In  the  side  room,  he  heard 
his  father  pace  to  and  fro.  He  opened  a  win- 
dow. In  the  square  below,  the  call  to  arms 
sounded.  A  battalion  of  mobiles,  about  to  set 
out,  were  calling  their  numbers.  Yes,  this  was  a 
battle  in  real  earnest.  The  wretched  child  could 
not  restrain  a  sob. 

"  What  ails  you  ?  "  asked  Father  Stenne,  entering 
the  room. 

The  child  could  control  himself  no  longer.  He 
jumped  from  his  bed  and  would  have  thrown 
himself  at  his  father's  feet.  But  his  sudden  move- 
ment sent  the  money  rolling  upon  the  floor. 


The  Boy  Spy.  33 

"What  is  that?  Have  you  been  stealing?" 
asked  the  old  man,  and  he  trembled. 

Then  without  pausing  to  take  breath,  little 
Stenne  told  him  all  that  had  happened  in  that 
visit  to  the  Prussians,  and  what  share  he  had  had 
in  it.  And,  by  degrees,  as  he  told  his  story  he 
seemed  to  breathe  more  freely,  that  silent  accuser 
in  his  heart  ceased  to  torture  him. 

Father  Stenne's  face,  as  he  listened,  was  terrible. 
When  he  had  heard  the  last  word,  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  wept. 

"  Father,  father !  "  the  child  tried  to  say. 

But  the  old  man  pushed  the  boy  away  from  him 
without  a  word,  and  began  to  pick  up  the  money. 

"Is  this  all?"  he  asked. 

Little  Stenne  nodded.  The  old  man  took  down 
his  gun  and  his  cartridge-box,  and  put  the  money 
in  his  pocket. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  return  it  to  them." 

And  withqut  another  word,  without  looking  back 
a  single  time,  he  descended,  and  went  out  into  the 
night,  and  mingled  with  the  mobiles  who  were 
leaving.     He  was  never  seen  again.    - 


34  Monday  Tales. 


THE  MOTHER. 
A   SOUVENIR   OF   THE   SIEGE. 

THAT  morning  I  bad  gone  to  Mont  Valerien  to 
see  our  artist-friend,  Monsieur  B ,  then  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  mobile  of  the  Seine.  I  found  that 
fine  fellow  on  guard.  No  way  of  getting  out  of  it ! 
And  there  he  was,  compelled  to  pace  back  and 
forth,  before  the  postern  of  the  fort,  like  a  sailor 
on  watch,  while  we  talked  of  Paris,  of  the  war,  and 
of  dear  ones  far  away.  Suddenly  my  lieutenant, 
who,  in  spite  of  his  military  coat,  was  as  tremendous 
a  dauber  as  ever,  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of 
his  sentence,  and  caught  my  arm. 

"  There  's  a  fine  Daumier ! "  he  whispered.  He 
was  looking  at  something  out  of  the  corner  of  one 
eye,  and  that  small  gray  eye  of  his  kindled  like  a 
hunting-dog's,  as  he  pointed  to  the  silhouette  of 
two  venerable  figures  that  had  just  made  their  ap- 
pearance upon  the  plateau  of  Mont  Valerien. 

And  indeed  the  couple  suggested  some  fine 
sketch  fresh  from  Daumier's  hand.  The  man  wore 
a  chestnut-colored  surtout,  with  a  collar  of  greenish 
velvet,  that  looked  like  old  wood-moss;  he  was 
short  and  lean  and  ruddy,  with  a  low  forehead, 
round  eyes,  and  nose  like  an  owl's  beak;  his  head 
was  like  a  shrivelled  bird's  head,  and  his  air  was  at 


The  Mother.  35 

once  silly  and  solemn.  To  complete  the  picture, 
he  carried  on  one  arm  a  bag,  embroidered  with 
flowers,  from  which  protruded  the  neck  of  a  bottle, 
and  under  the  other  arm  a  box  of  preserves,  that 
everlasting  tin  box,  which  Parisians  of  those  days 
will  never  see  again  without  recalling  that  five 
months'  siege  of  theirs.  Of  the  woman  all  that  one 
saw  at  first  was  an  enormous  hood-like  bonnet  and 
an  old  shawl  whose  scanty  folds  wrapped  her  from 
head  to  foot,  revealing  all  the  more  plainly  the 
poverty  it  attempted  to  conceal ;  now  and  then, 
however,  the  tip  of  a  sharp  nose  peered  out  from 
the  faded  ruches  of  her  bonnet,  and  a  few  spare 
and  grizzled  locks  could  be  seen. 

When  they  reached  the  plateau,  the  man  paused 
to  regain  his  breath,  and  to  wipe  his  forehead. 
They  certainly  could  not  have  been  too  warm  in 
that  foggy,  keen  November  air,  but  they  had 
walked  very  quickly. 

The  woman  never  paused,  not  she  !  Advancing 
directly  towards  the  postern,  she  looked  at  us  a 
moment,  with  some  hesitation,  and  as  if  she  would 
speak  with  us ;  but,  doubtless  intimidated  by  an 
officer's  uniform,  she  preferred  to  address  the  sen- 
tinel, and  I  heard  her  ask  timidly  that  she  might 
be  allowed  to  see  her  son,  a  Paris  mobile  in  Com- 
pany Six,  Third  Battalion. 

"  Stay  here,"  said  the  guard,  "  and  I  will  call 
him." 

She  gave  a  joyous  sigh  of  relief,  and  returned  to 
her  husband,  and  both  seated  themselves  at  a  short 
distance,  on  the  side  of  a  talus. 


36  Monday  Tales. 

They  waited  there  an  interminable  time.  Mont 
Valerien  is  so  big,  such  a  complicated  affair,  with 
its  various  enclosures,  its  bastions,  glacis,  barracks, 
and  casemates!  No  easy  task  to  find  a  mobile  of 
the  Sixth  in  the  mazes  of  that  town  suspended  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth,  hanging  its  huge  spiral 
in  the  midst  of  the  clouds,  like  Laputa's  island. 
Moreover,  at  that  hour  from  one  end  to  the  other 
of  the  fort  drums  and  trumpets  are  sounding,  can- 
teens rattling.  The  sentry  is  relieved,  duty-service 
begins,  supplies  arc  distributed  ;  the  sharp-shooters 
are  bringing  in  a  spy,  covered  with  blood,  beating 
him  with  their  gun-butts.  Some  peasant  folk  of 
Nanterre  are  come  to  complain  to  the  General ;  an 
estafette  comes  galloping  in,  the  man  chilled,  and 
the  beast  dripping  with  sweat.  Litters  arrive  from 
the  outposts  with  the  wounded  suspended  upon 
the  backs  of  mules,  and  moaning  softly  like  sick 
lambs.  Sailors  are  seen  hauling  a  new  cannon  to 
the  music  of  a  fife,  with  cries  of  "  Heave  ho  !  "  A 
shepherd  in  red  trousers  is  driving  in  before  him 
the  cattle  belonging  to  the  fort,  a  rod  in  his  hand, 
his  chassepot  slung  across  his  shoulder.  In  the 
yards  of  the  fort  an  incessant  coming  and  going, 
men  passing  one  another,  and  disappearing  through 
the  postern  like  figures  vanishing  through  the  low 
door  of  some  caravansary  of  the  ICast. 

"  I  hope  they  have  not  forgotten  my  boy,"  the 
poor  mother's  eyes  are  saying  all  this  time;  and  as 
the  minutes  lengthen  she  rises  .and  discreetly  ap- 
proaches the  entrance,  casting  a  furtive  glance 
towards  the  front  yard,  while;   she   edges   along  the 


The  Mother.  37 

wall,  but  she  dares  not  ask  any  more  questions, 
lest  she  should  reflect  discredit  upon  her  son. 
lier  companion,  more  timid  even  than  herself, 
does  not  budge  once  from  the  spot  where  he  is 
seated;  and  when  she  returns  again  and  again,  to 
seat  herself  beside  him,  her  heart  swelling,  and  a 
I  >uk  of  deep  discouragement  visible  upon  her  fca- 
tures,  it  is  plain  that  he  is  chiding  her  for  her  im- 
p  iiience,  and  giving  her  no  end  of  explanations  as 
1<>  the  exigencies  of  a  soldier's  life,  information 
imparted  with  the  imbecile  air  of  one  who  would 
have  you  think  he  knows  it  all. 

I  have  always  regarded  with  the  deepest  curiosity 
those  little  domestic  scenes  enacted  amid  the  ut- 
most silence,  scenes  of  whose  significance  one 
often  divines  more  than  is  actually  seen,  —  in  those 
pantomimes  of  the  street,  which  elbow  us  on  every 
side  during  our  walks  abroad,  the  merest  gesture 
often  revealing  to  us  the  history  of  a  lifetime;  but 
what  specially  charmed  me  here  was  the  awkward- 
ness, the  naYvctd  of  my  principal  characters,  and  it 
was  with  real  emotion  I  witnessed  all  the  incidents  of 
a  delightful  drama  of  the  hearth,  as  I  followed  that 
little  dumb-show,  as  expressive  and  transparent  as 
the  pantomime  of  two  of  Seraphin's  marionettes. 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  mother  remark  one  fine 
morning,  "  I  am  sick  of  this  Monsieur  Trochu, 
and  his  orders.  I  have  not  seen  my  boy  for  three 
months.     I  want  to  see  him,  to  kiss  him." 

And  the  father,  timorous,  with  an  eternal  air  of 
apology  for  the  fact  of  his  existence,  is  frightened 
at  the  mere  thought  of  what  must  be  done  in  order 


38  Monday  Tales. 

to  obtain  permission  to  see  the  son.  and  at  first 
attempts  to  dissuade  her.  "  But,  my  dear,  you 
don't  stop  to  think !  Mont  Valerien  —  deuce  take 
it !  —  is  a  long  way  off.  How  could  you  ever  get 
there  without  a  carriage?  Besides,  it  is  a  citadel. 
Women  are  not  allowed  to  enter." 

"  But  —  I  will  enter  —  "  answers  the  wife ;  and  as 
he  obeys  all  her  commands,  he  undertakes  this  new 
errand.  He  goes  to  the  Secteur,  to  the  mairie,  to 
the  headquarters  of  the  Army  of  Paris,  to  the  com- 
missary, clammy  with  fear,  shivering  with  the  cold, 
knocking  at  every  door,  stumbling  into  the  wrong 
one  again  and  again,  waiting  in  line  two  hours  be- 
fore the  office  of  one  department,  and  that  not  the 
right  one.  But  at  last  he  returns  towards  evening 
with  the  Governor's  permit  in  his  pocket.  The 
next  day  they  rise  very  early,  and  dress  in  the 
cold,  by  lamp-light.  The  father  nibbles  a  bit  of 
bread,  to  fortify  himself,  but  the  mother  is  not 
hungry.  She  prefers  to  breakfast  later  with  her 
son.  And  to  cheer  the  poor  mobile  a  little,  they 
pile  into  the  bag  both  the  ordinary  provisions  of 
the  siege  and  those  reserved  for  special  occasions, 
chocolate,  sweetmeats,  and  a  bottle  of  wine ;  they 
remember  everything,  even  the  famous  box,  an 
eight-franc  box,  which  they  had  laid  aside  religi- 
ously for  a  day  of  need.  At  last  they  have  started. 
When  they  reach  the  ramparts,  and  the  gates  are 
opened,  they  must  show  their  permit.  And  now  it 
is  the  wife's  turn  to  be  frightened.  But  she  is  re- 
assured.    The  permit,  it  seems,  is  quite  e?i  rtgle. 

"  You  may  pass,"  says  the  adjutant  on  duty. 


The  Mother.  39 

And  not  until  then  does  she  breathe  freely. 

"  How  polite  that  officer  was  to  us !  " 

She  toddles  on,  as  agile  as  a  young  partridge. 
The  man  can  scarcely  keep  up  with  her. 

"  How  fast  you  walk,  my  dear !  " 

But  she  is  not  listening  to  him.  Above  hei 
Mont  Valerien  looms  against  the  misty  horizon, 
and  beckons  to  her. 

"  Come  quickly.     He  is  here  !  " 

And  now  they  have  reached  Mont  Valerien,  a 
fresh  cause  for  anxiety.  Suppose  she  should  not 
find  him  !     What  if  he  is  not  coming,  after  all ! 

Suddenly  I  saw  her  tremble,  clutch  the  old  man's 
arm,  and  spring  to  her  feet.  In  the  distance  foot- 
steps were  heard  echoing  along  the  vaulted  pass- 
age, footsteps  which  she  recognized.  It  was  her 
son !  When  he  appeared,  the  entrance  to  the  fort 
was  suddenly  illumined  for  her  eyes. 

And  indeed  he  was  a  big,  splendid  fellow,  his 
bearing  erect  and  vigorous.  He  came,  gun  in 
hand  and  knapsack  on  his  back.  His  greeting  was 
sincere,  as  the  joyous,  virile  voice  exclaimed,  — 

"  Good-morning,  mamma." 

And  suddenly  knapsack,  blanket,  chassepot,  and 
all  disappeared  from  sight,  and  were  lost  in  that 
enormous  bonnet.  Then  the  father's  turn  came, 
but  it  did  not  last  so  long,  for  the  bonnet  wanted 
everything  for  itself.     It  was  insatiable. 

"And  how  are  you?  Are  you  clad  warmly 
enough?     How  are  you  off  for  linen?" 

And  beneath  the  ruches  of  that  bonnet  I  could 
see  her  eyes,  and  their  prolonged  and  loving  glance 


40  Monday  Tales, 

which  embraced  him  from  head  to  foot,  amid  a 
shower  of  tears  and  little  laughs  and  kisses.  For 
there  was  an  arrearage  of  three  long  months  due 
him,  —  an  arrearage  which  maternal  tenderness 
was  striving  to  pay  him  all  at  once.  The  father  too 
seemed  deeply  moved,  but  he  did  not  desire  that 
any  one  should  suspect  the  fact.  He  understood 
that  we  were  watching  him,  and  blinked  once  or 
twice  in  our  direction,  as  if  to  say,  — 

"  You  must  excuse  her.     She  's  a  woman." 

As  if  I  could  excuse  her  ! 

But  the  sound  of  a  bugle  interrupted  all  this  joy 
unexpectedly. 

"  The  call !  "  said  the  youth.     "  I  must  go." 

"  What !  You  will  not  take  your  breakfast  with 
us?" 

"  I  cannot.  I  am  on  duty  for  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours,  above,  at  the  fort." 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  poor  woman,  and  she  was 
speechless. 

And  in  consternation  each  gazed  at  the  other  for 
a  moment.     Then  the  father  was  spokesman. 

"  At  least  you  will  take  the  box,"  he  said  in  a 
heart-broken  voice,  with  an  air  of  gluttony  and  of 
martyrdom  which  was  at  once  touching  and  ludi- 
crous. But  in  the  agitation  and  emotion  of  leave- 
taking,  that  infernal  box  was  nowhere  to  be  found  ! 
It  was  pathetic  to  see  those  feeble  and  trembling 
hands  groping  for  it,  and  to  hear  two  voices, 
broken  by  sobs,  inquiring:  "  The  box  !  Where  is 
the  box?"  —  evidently  considering  this  petty  and 
homely  detail  not  unworthy  of  their  great  sorrow. 


The  Mother. 


41 


But  at  last  the  box  was  found,  there  was  one  long, 
last  embrace,  and  then  the  son  returned  to  the  fort 
on  the  run. 

But  recall  how  far  they  had  come  to  breakfast 
with  him,  and  that  it  was  to  have  been  a  great 
affair  in  their  lives,  that  the  mother  had  not  slept 
one  minute  the  night  before,  in  anticipation  of  it, 
and  tell  me  whether  anything  could  be  more  pa- 
thetic than  that  little  party  which  never  came  off, 
that  momentary  glimpse  of  a  paradise  whose  door 
was  so  suddenly,  so  brutally,  closed  against  them. 

They  lingered  for  some  minutes,  standing  mo- 
tionless in  the  spot  where  the  boy  had  left  them, 
their  eyes  riveted  upon  the  postern  through  which 
he  had  disappeared  from  their  sight.  At  length 
the  man  roused  himself,  and  made  a  move  towards 
departure.  He  coughed  very  courageously  two  or 
three  times,  and  his  voice  gaining  confidence,  he 
said  quite  audibly  and  cheerfully,  — 

"  Come,  mother,  let  us  go."  Then  he  made  us 
an  overwhelming  courtesy,  and  took  his  wife's  arm. 
My  eyes  followed  them  as  far  as  the  turn  in  the 
road.  The  good  man's  air  was  furious.  He  bran- 
dished his  bag,  and  his  gestures  were  full  of  de- 
spair. The  mother  herself  appeared  to  be  calmer. 
She  walked  beside  him,  her  head  sunken  upon  her 
breast,  her  arms  at  her  side.  But  I  fancied  that 
from  time  to  time  the  shawl  which  covered  her  thin 
shoulders  rose  and  fell  convulsively. 


4 2  Monday   Tales. 


THE   SIEGE   OF  BERLIN. 

WE  ascended  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elys^es 

with   Doctor   V ,( reading,    upon    those    wa]*s 

pierced  with  shells  and  sidewalks  dug  up  with 
grapeshot,  the  story  of  the  Siege  of  Paris,  j  Just 
before  we  reached  the  Rondpoint  de  l'Stoile,  the 
Doctor  paused,  and  pointing  out  to  me  one  -ef 
those  great  corner-house^  which  face  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  with  such  a  pompous  air,)  he  said,  — 

"  Do  you  see  those  four  closed  windows  up  there 
over  the  balcony?  In -the  early  part  of  the  month 
-of  August  of  last  year,  that  awful  month  full  of 
storm  and  disaster,  I  was  summoned  to  that  apart- 
ment to  attend  a  severe  case  of  apoplexy.  My 
patient  was  Colonel  Jouve,  an  old  cuirassier  of  the 
First  Empire.  Love  of  country  was  his  ruling 
passion,  and  his  mistress  was  Glory.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war  he  had  taken  up  quarters  in 
the  Champs  iJlys^es  in  that  apartment  with  the 
balcony.  ^Do  you  guess— ytWy  ?  That  he  might 
witness  the  triumphal  re-entry  of  our  troops.  Poor 
old  man !  The  news  of  Wissembourg  reached  his 
ears  just  as  he  was  rising  from  table.  He  saw  the 
name  of  Napoleon  at  the  end  of  that  bulletin  of 
defeat,  and  the  sudden  shock  prostrated  him. 

"  When  I  reached  the  old  cuirassier,  he  was 
stretched   at  full  length  upon   the  carpet  of  his 


1 


The  Siege  of  Berlin.  43 

"00m.  His  face  gave  no  signs  of  life,  but  it  was 
bleeding  as  if  he  had  received  a  tremendous  blow 
upon  the  head.  (Standing  he  must  have  presented 
«n  imposing  figure.  As  he  lay  there,  he  looked 
like  a  giant.  His  features  were  so  noble,  his  sil- 
very locks  curled  so  thickly,  he  had  such  splendid 
teeth,  that  this  octogenarian  looked  scarcely  more 
than  sixty  years  of  age. )  Near  him  knelt  his  grand- 
daughter in  tears.  ( She  resembled  him  strongly. 
The  sight  of  both  together  suggested  two  beauti- 
ful Greek  medals  struck  from  the  same  impression ; 
but  one  was  old  and  dull,  its  outlines  somewhat 
worn,  while  the  other  was  bright  and  clear-cut, 
having  all  the  smoothness  and  brilliancy  of  a  first 
impression.  J  . 

"  The  child's  grief  touched  me.  (  Her  grandfather 
had  been  a  soldier.  Her  father  too  was  a  soldier, 
an  officer  of  MacMahon's  staff;  and  at  sight  of  this 
stately  old  hero  prostrate,  my  imagination  pictured 
a  scene  not  less  terrible/  I  did  my,  best  to  reassure 
her,  but  at  heart  I  felt  no  hope.  I  We  had  to  deal 
with  a  severe  case  of  hemiplegia,  and  at  eighty 
recovery  is  extremely  doubtful.  And,  in  fact/  for 
three  days  the  sick  man  never  rallied  from  the 
stupor  in  which  I  had  found  him.  Meanwhile  news 
of  the  battle  Reichshoffen  had  just  reached  Paris. 
You  will  remember  how  strangely  we  were  deceived. 
Until  evening  we  all  believed  a  great  victory  had 
been  gained,  twenty  thousand  Prussians  slain,  the 
prince  royal  a  prisoner.  Through  some  agency 
scarcely  less  than  miraculous,  some  echo  of  the 
nation's  joy  must  have  reached  the  patient,  deaf 


44  Monday   Tales, 

and  dumb  though  he  was,  some  magnetic  current 
must  have  penetrated  even  that  paralyzed  frame, 
for  that  evening,  when  I  approached  his  bedside,  I 
saw  that  he  was  a  new  man.  His  eye  was  clear 
almost,  his  tongue  no  longer  thick.  He  wis  able 
to  smile,  and  twice  he  stammered  '  Vic-to-ry  ! ' 

"  '  Yes,  colonel,  a  great  victory  ! ' 

"  And  as  I  acquainted  him  with  the  details  of 
MacMahon's  glorious  success,  his  features  relaxed, 
his  face  brightened. 

"  As  I  was  about  to  leave  the  apartment,  I  found 
the  young  girl  waiting  for  me.  She  was  weeping. 
'  But  he  is  out  of  danger ! '  I  said,  taking  her 
hands  in  mine. 

"  The  unhappy  child  scarcely  ventured  a  reply. 
The  bulletins  had  just  announced  the  true  story  of 
Reichshoffen.  MacMahon  was  retreating,  the 
army  cut  to  pieces.  Our  eyes  could  not  conceal 
the  consternation  both  felt.  The  child  was  heart- 
broken. She  was  thinking  of  her  father.  But  I 
trembled  at  thought  of  the  old  man.  Surely  he 
could  not  survive  this  fresh  shock.  But  what  should 
we  do?  Leave  him  to  enjoy  that  happiness,  those 
illusions  which  had  breathed  new  life  into  him? 
But  in  that  case  we  must  feed  him  upon  lies. 
1  Very  well,  I  will  lie  to  him !  '  said  the  young 
heroineAquickly  drying  her  eyes,  and  her  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles  when  she  returned  to  her 
grandfather's  chamber..  * 

"  She  had  undertaken  no  light  taski  During  the 
first  days  it  was  not  so  difficult  a  matter,  for  the 
good  man's  head  was  very  weak,  and  he  was  as 


The  Siege  of  Berlin,  45 

easily  deceived  as  a  child.  But  as  health  returned, 
his  ideas  grew  clearer. !  It  was  necessary  to  keep 
him  informed  of  the  movement  of  the  various 
armies,  and  to  manufacture  military  bulletins  for 
him.(  And  it  was  truly  pitiable  to  see  that  lovely 
childvburied  night  and  day  in  a  map  of  Germany; 
pinning  tiny  flags  upon  it,  endeavoring  to  invent 
the  details  of  a  glorious  campaign.  Bazaine  had 
advanced  upon  Berlin,  Froissart  was  in  Bavaria, 
MacMahon  on  the  Baltic  !  Sometimes  she  con- 
sulted me,  and  I  aided  her  as  far  as  I  could,  but  in 
carrying  out  this  imaginary  invasion  no  one  ren- 
dered us  greater  assistance  than  the  grandfather 
himself.  He  had  conquered  Germany  so  many 
times  during  the  First  Empire  !  He  knew  every 
move  in  advance.  '  This  is  where  they  will  go 
next !  '  *  This  will  be  their  next  move,'  he  would 
say;  and  his  anticipations  never  failing  to  prove 
themselves  correct,  he  took  not  a  little  pride  in 
them. 

"  '  But,  alas  !  to  no  avail  did  we  take  cities,  win 
battles.  We  did  not  move  rapidly  enough  to  suit 
him.  /That  old  man  was  simply  insatiable.  Every 
day  1  visited  him  I  heard  news  of  some  fresh 
exploit. 

" '  Doctor,  we  have  taken  Mayence,'  said  the 
young  girl,  advancing  towards  me  with  a  heart- 
rending smile,  and  through  the  door  I  heard  a 
joyous  voice  exclaiming,  '  We  move !  we  move ! 
in  a  week  more  we  shall  enter  Berlin.' 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Prussians  would  reach 
Paris   in  another   week,  f  We  asked   ourselves  at 


46  Monday   Tales. 

first  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  remove  our 
patient  from  the  city,  but,  once  outside  of  Paris, 
the  condition  of  France  would  have  told  him  all ; 
moreover,  he  was  too  weak,  too  much  benumbed 
from  the  effect  of  the  first  shock,  to  learn  the  truth 
then.     It  was  decided  to  remain.y 

"  The  first  day  of  the  investment  of  the  city,  I 
climbed  up  to  my  patient's  apartment.  (Well  I 
remember  that  day y  My  heart  was  heavy,  full  of 
anguish.  For  the  gates  of  Paris  were  closed,  the 
enemy  under  her  very  walls,  and  even  her  out- 
skirts converted  into  frontiers.  I  found  the  in- 
genuous old  man  sitting  up  in  bed,  proud  and 
jubilant. 

"  '  Well,'  he  said,  '  at  last  the  siege  has  begun  ! ' 

"  I  looked  at  him ;  I  was  stunned.  '  Why,  colonel,' 
I  asked,  '  how  do  you  know  that?' 

"  His  granddaughter  glanced  in  my  direction. 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  doctor ;  this  is  great  news !  The 
siege  of  Berlin  has  begun.' 

vAnd  as  she  spoke,  she  plied  her  needle  with  a 
little  affectation  of  composure.  How  should  he 
suspect  anything?  Though  the  cannons  were  fir- 
ing from  the  forts,  he  could  not  hear  them.  And 
although  unhappy  Paris  was  turned  upside  down, 
and  filled  with  gloom  and  forebodings,  he  saw 
nothing  of  it  all.  But  where  he  lay,  he  could  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  his  chamber 
was  filled  with  bric-a-brac  of  the  First  Empire,  ad- 
mirably fitted  to  nourish  his  illusions.  Portraits 
of  marshals  were  there,  engravings  of  battles; 
there  was  a  picture  of  the  King  of  Rome  in  baby 


The  Siege  of  Berlin.  47 

robes.  There  were  tall,  stiff  consoles  ornamented 
with  trophied  brass,  and  loaded  with  imperial 
relics,  medallions,  bronzes ;  there  was  a  bit  of  the 
rock  of  St.  Helena  under  a  glass  globe ;  there  were 
numerous  miniatures  always  representing  the  same 
lady,  in  ball-room  costume,  in  a  yellow  robe  with 
leg-of-mutton  sleeves,  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  glanc- 
ing from  beneath  her  carefully  curled  locks. 

"  All  these  ornaments,  the  King  of  Rome,  the  mar- 
shals, the  yellow  ladies,  those  short-waisted,  high- 
girdled  figures  whose  stiff  and  artificial  lines  were 
considered  the  very  embodiment  of  grace  in  1 806  — 
gallant  colonel! — it  was  such  things  as  those,  it 
was  that  atmospheie  of  victory  and  conquest,  which, 
far  more  than  any  words  of  oursJmade  him  accept 
the  story  of  the  siege  of  Berlin  with  such  childlike 
simplicity. 

"  From  that  day,  our  military  operations  were  far 
less  complex.  To  take  Berlin  was  simply  a  ques- 
tion of  patience.  From  time  to  time,  when  the  old 
man  grew  weary  of  waiting,  we  would  read  him  a 
letter  from  his  son,  of  course,  an  imaginary  letter, 
for  Paris  was  cut  off  from  the  outer  world  then,  and, 
besides,  since  the  battle  of  Sedan,  MacMahon's 
aide-de-camp  was  confined  In  a  German  fortress. 
You  may  imagine  that  pooi  child's  despair,  living 
from  day  to  day  with  no  news  of  ner  father,  but 
knowing  that  he  was  a  prisoner,  deprived  of  every- 
thing, sick,  perhaps, —  imagine  her  agony  knowing 
all  this,  but  compelled  to  speak  for  him,  to  invent 
such  joyous  epistles  in  his  behalf,  a  trifle  brief, 
perhaps,  but  the  brevity  of  a  soldier  in  the  field, 


48  Monday  Tales. 

who  answers  his  country's  cry,  '  Forward ! '  and 
sees  her  arms  everywhere  victorious.  Sometimes 
she  had  not  the  heart  for  these  letters,  and  then 
weeks  passed  without  news.  But  the  old  man 
would  grow  restless  and  could  not  sleep.  Then  a 
letter  would  at  once  arrive  from  Germany,  and  she 
would  .read  it  gayly  at  his  bedside,  repressing  her 
tears.  I  The  colonel  always  listened  religiously, 
with  a^ very  wise  air;  he  approved,  criticised,  ex- 
plained to  us  here  and  there  a  passage  which 
seemed  slightly  obscure.  But  his  finest  efforts 
were  replies  he  sent  his  son.  '  Never  forget  that 
you  are  a  Frenchman/  he  would  say.  '  Be  gen- 
erous to  these  poor  people.  Invade  their  country, 
but  not  as  an  oppressor.'  Then  followed  sugges- 
tions without  end,  delightful  twaddle  concerning  a 
right  observance  of  propriety,  and  what  constituted 
courtesy  towards  women,  —  in  short,  a  whole  mili- 
tary code  for  the  guidance  of  these  conquerors  ;  he 
added  some  reflections  upon  politics  in  general, 
and  outlined  the  conditions  of  peace  which  must 
be  imposed  upon  the  vanquished.  I  must  add  that, 
as  regards  the  last  subject,  his  demands  were  not 
severe. 

"  '  A  war  indemnity,  only  that ;  what  good  would 
it  do  to  seize  their  provinces?  A  France  could 
never  be  made  out  of  Germany  ! ' 

"  He  dictated  these  words  with  a  steady  voice, 
with  such  candor,  and  such  noble  faith  in  his 
country,  that  it  was  impossible  to  listen  to  him 
unmoved. 

"  And  all  the  while  the  siege  was  progressing,  not, 


The  Siege  of  Berlin.  49 

alas !  that  of  Berlin.  There  were  days  of  severe 
cold,  of  bombardment,  of  epidemics  and  famine. 
But,  thanks  to  our  cares,  our  efforts,  and  all  those 
proofs  of  indefatigable  tenderness  which  were  mul- 
tiplied about  him,  the  old  man  never  felt  a  moment's 
anxiety.  To  the  very  end  I  was  able  to  obtain 
white  bread  and  fresh  meat  for  him.  Of  course 
there  was  none  for  any  one  else,  and  you  cannot 
imagine  anything  more  touching  than  this  grand- 
father's breakfasts  of  which  he  partook  with  such 
innocent  egotism,  the  old  man  sitting  up  in  bed, 
fresh  and  smiling,  his  napkin  under  his  chin,  the 
granddaughter  ever  at  his  side,  her  pale  face  re- 
vealing the  privation  she  had  suffered ;  she  guided 
his  hands,  compelled  him  to  drink,  aided  him  as 
he  ate  all  the  good  things  saved  specially  for  him. 
Enlivened  by  his  repast,  enjoying  the  comfort  of 
his  warm  chamber  while  the  cold  winter  wind  blew 
without,  and  the  snow  whirled  about  his  windows, 
the  aged  cuirassier  would  recall  his  campaigns  in 
the  North  and  related  to  us  for  the  hundredth 
time  the  tale  of  that  mournful  retreat  from  Moscow, 
when  there  was  no  other  food  than  frozen  biscuit 
and  horse-flesh. 

"'Do  you  know  what  that  means,  child?  We 
ate  horse-flesh  ! '  I  think  she  understood  perfectly. 
She  had  been  eating  no  other  meat  for  two  months. 
From  day  to  day,  as  convalescence  approached, 
the  patient  began  to  make  our  task  a  more  difficult 
one.  That  lethargy  of  all  his  senses,  of  all  his 
limbs,,  had  aided  us  up  to  this  time,  but  was  begin- 
ning to  leave  him.  Several  times  those  terrible 
4 


50  Monday  Tales. 

volleys  from  the  Porte  Maillot  made  him  start  sud- 
denly, his  ear  as  alert  as  a  hound's :  we  were 
obliged  to  invent  a  final  victory  for  Bazaine  before 
Berlin,  and  to  explain  that  the  salutes  in  front  of 
Les  Invalides  were  in  honor  of  the  event.  Another 
day,  when  we  had  pushed  his  bed  close  to  the  win- 
dow, I  think  it  was  the  Thursday  the  battle  of  Bu- 
zenval  occurred,  he  saw  the  National  Guard  quite 
distinctly  as  it  formed  in  front  of  the  Avenue  de  la 
Grande  Arm6e. 

"'What  troops  are  those?'  asked  our  colonel, 
and  we  heard  him  mutter  to  himself,  — 

"  '  Badly  drilled  !  badly  drilled  ! ' 

"  Nothing  came  of  this  incident,  but  we  realized 
that  it  now  behooved  us  to  take  greater  precautions 
than  before.  Unfortunately  we  were  not  cautious 
enoughJ 

"  One  evening  on  my  arrival,  the  child  came  to 
me,  her  face  full  of  anxiety. 

"  '  To-morrow  they  enter,'  she  said. 

"Was  the  door  of  the  grandfather's  room  ajar? 
I  do  remember,  and  have  often  thought  in  recalling 
that  evening,  that  his  features  wore  an  unusual  ex- 
pression. /  It  is  very  likely  that  he  had  heard  what 
we  were  saying.  But  we  were  speaking  of  the 
Prussians,  and  he  was  thinking  of  the  French  army, 
and  of  that  triumphal  entry  he  had  been  expecting 
for  many  a  day, —  MacMahon  descending  the 
avenue  to  martial  music,  along  a  path  strewn  with 
flowers,  his  son  at  the  marshal's  sideband  there 
upon  the  balcony,  the  old  warrior  himself  in  full 
uniform,  as  upon  the  field  of  Lutzen,  saluting  the 


The  Siege  of  Berlin.  5 1 

flags  that  had  many  a  rent  in  them,  and  our  eagles 
blackened  with  powder.J 

"  Poor  Father  Jouve  t  Doubtless  he  fancied  we 
would  not  permit  him  to  assist  at  that  entry  of 
our  troops,  anxious  to  spare  him  the  excitement 
of  so  great  an  event.  For  he  said  nothing  to  any 
one,  but  the  following  day,  just  at  the  hour  when 
the  Prussians  advanced  somewhat  timidly  upon  the 
long  avenue  leading  from  the  Porte  Maillot  to  the 
Tuileries,  an  upper  window  opened  softly,  and 
the  colonel  himself  appeared  upon  the  balcony, 
wearing  his  helmet,  his  long  cavalry  sword,  and  all 
the  antiquated  but  glorious  toggery  of  an  old 
cuirassier  of  Milhaud.  f  I  still  ask  myself  what 
tremendous  effort  of  his  will,  what  sudden  start  of 
life,  had  put  him  on  his  feet  again,  and  in  all  his 
war  trappings.  But  one  fact  is  certain.)  There  he 
stood  upon  the  balcony,  amazed  to  fina  the  avenue 
so  wide  and  still,  the  blinds  of  the  houses  closed,  and 
Paris  itself  as  gloomy  as  a  vast  lazaretto ^ilags  every- 
where, but  strangely  enough,  only  white  flags  with 
red  crosses,  and  no  one  to  meet  our  soldiers. 

"  For  a  moment  he  must  have  believed  he  had 
made  a  mistake, —  but,  no  !  yonder,  behind  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe,  issued  an  indistinct  rattle,  a  black 
line  advanced  steadily  into  the  morning  light. 
Then  by  degrees  the  tops  of  helmets  could  be  seen 
flashing  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  drums  of  Jena 
began  to  beat.  And  then  beneath  the  Arc  de 
l'fitoile,  accented  by  the  rhythmic  tramp  of  the 
regiments  and  the  clashing  of  sabres,  resounded 
the  strains  of  Schubert's  triumphal  march. 


52  Monday  Tales. 

"  Then  through  the  dismal  silence  of  the  place 
was  heard  an  awful  cry,  '  To  arms !  to  arms !  the 
Prussians ! '  and  the  four  uhlans  of  the  advance- 
guard,  looking  towards  the  balcony  above,  could 
see  the  majestic  figure  of  an  old  man  reeling,  his 
arms  outstretched.  He  fell  heavily.  This  time  the 
shock  had  indeed  proved  fatal.  Colonel  Jouve 
was  dead." 


A  Renegade  Zouave.  53 


A  RENEGADE    ZOUAVE. 

That  evening  the  big  blacksmith  Lory  of  Sainte- 
Marie-aux-Mines  was  not  in  the  best  of  humors. 
Usually  after  the  forge-fire  was  out,  and  the  sun 
had  set,  he  would  sit  upon  a  bench  before  his 
doorway,  tasting  all  the  delight  of  that  weariness 
which  comes  to  one  who  has  borne  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day.  And  before  dismissing  his 
apprentices,  he  would  linger  with  them  for  a  few 
draughts  of  fresh  beer,  watching  the  people  going 
home  from  the  factories.  But  this  evening  the 
worthy  smith  remained  in  his  shop  until  meal-time, 
and  then  he  seemed  reluctant  to  go.  His  good 
old  wife  thought  as  she  looked  at  him,  "What  ails 
him?  Has  he  received  some  bad  news  he  is  un- 
willing to  tell  me,  from  the  regiment?  Perhaps 
our  oldest  is  ill."  But  she  did  not  venture  to  ask 
any  questions,  and  confined  all  her  efforts  to  quiet- 
ing three  little  laughing,  fair-haired  lads  with  locks 
the  color  of  ripened  wheat,  who  were  crunching  a 
fine  salad  of  black  radishes  and  cream. 

At  length  the  blacksmith  pushed  away  his  plate 
angrily. 

"  Oh,  what  beggarly  knaves,  what  scoundrels 
they  are  !  " 

"  Whom  do  you  mean,  tell  us,  Lory?" 


54  Monday  Tales, 

"Whom  do  I  mean?"  he  exclaimed.  "Five  or 
six  vagabonds  who  straggled  into  the  town  this 
morning,  wearing  the  uniforms  of  French  soldiers, 
but  hand  in  glove  with  the  Bavarians:  some  of 
that  mob  which  has  —  what  do  they  call  it?  — 
declared  in  favor  of  Prussia;  and  to  think  that 
every  day  will  witness  the  return  of  more  of  these 
false  Alsatians !  What  do  you  suppose  they  gave 
them  to  drink?  " 

The  mother  attempted  a  defence. 

11  What  would  you  have,  my  poor  man?  These 
boys  are  not  so  much  to  blame.  Away  in  Algeria, 
in  Africa,  they  are  so  far  from  home  that  they 
grow  sick  for  a  sight  of  it.  The  temptation  to 
return,  to  give  up  a  soldier's  life,  is  too  strong  for 
them." 

Lory's  fist  descended  heavily  upon  the  table. 

"  No  more,  mother  !  You  women  do  not  know 
what  you  are  talking  about.  So  much  of  your  life 
is  spent  among  children,  and  for  them  alone,  that 
you  come  to  see  all  things  through  the  eyes  of 
your  puppets.  But  I  tell  you,  those  men  we  saw 
this  morning  are  knaves,  renegades,  cowards  of  the 
worst  sort;  and  if  in  an  evil  hour  our  Christian 
could  be  capable  of  such  infamy  as  theirs,  as  sure 
as  my  name  is  George  Lory,  and  I  was  for  seven 
years  a  chasseur  in  the  service  of  France,  I  would 
run  him  through  the  body  with  my  sabre." 

Partly  risen  from  his  chair,  the  blacksmith 
pointed  with  a  terrible  glance  to  his  long  cavalry 
sword,  hanging  upon  the  wall  under  his  son's  pic- 
ture, the   portrait   of  a   zouave,   done   in   Africa. 


A  Renegade  Zouave,  55 

But  as  he  looked  at  that  honest  Alsatian  face,  dark 
and  sunburnt,  viewed  in  the  strong  relief  which  is 
shown  when  vivid  colors  are  seen  in  a  strong  light, 
suddenly  he  grew  calm. 

"  I  am  foolish  to  work  myself  into  a  passion ! 
As  if  our  Christian  could  dream  of  becoming  a 
Prussian,  —  he  who  has  killed  so  many  of  them  dur- 
ing the  war." 

Restored  to  good  humor  by  this  thought,  the 
worthy  man  finished  his  meal  with  a  light  heart, 
and  set  forth  at  once  for  the  Ville  de  Strasbourg, 
to  empty  a  pot  or  two  of  beer. 

The  old  wife  was  alone.  She  put  the  little  ones 
to  bed,  while  they  chirped  like  a  nestful  of  birds 
going  to  rest,  and  then  she  took  her  darning,  and 
seated  herself  before  the  door  leading  to  the  gar- 
den. She  sighed  from  time  to  time,  and  thought 
to  herself,  — 

14  Oh,  yes ;  that  is  all  true  enough.  They  are 
cowards,  renegades.  All  the  same,  their  mothers 
must  be  glad  enough  to  see  them  again." 

And  she  recalled  the  time  when  her  boy,  before  he 
left  for  the  army,  stood  in  that  little  garden,  tending 
it,  at  that  very  hour.  She  looked  at  the  well  where 
he  had  refilled  his  watering-pots,  —  that  boy  in  the 
blouse  and  long  locks,  those  locks  which  had  to  be 
cut  when  he  entered  the  ranks  of  the  zouaves. 

Suddenly  she  trembles.  The  little  back  door 
that  leads  to  the  fields  is  opened. 

The  dogs  do  not  bark,  though  the  new-comer 
steals  along  the  walls,  among  the  beehives,  like  a 
robber. 


56  Monday  Tales. 

"  Good-day,  mamma  !  " 

Her  Christian  himself  stands  before  her,  shame- 
faced, confused ;  his  tongue  is  thick,  his  uniform 
disordered. 

The  miserable  creature  has  come  with  the  others, 
and  for  a  whole  hour  he  has  been  prowling  about, 
waiting  for  his  father  to  leave  the  house,  that  he 
might  enter  it.  She  would  chide  him,  but  has 
not  the  heart.  It  is  such  a  long  while  since  she 
saw  him,  embraced  him  last.  And  then  he  has  so 
many  and  such  excellent  reasons  to  give  for  re- 
turning, —  he  longed  for  home,  for  the  forge,  was 
weary  of  living  so  far  away  from  his  people ;  the 
discipline  grew  severer  every  day,  and  the  others 
nicknamed  him  "  Prussian  !  "  because  of  his  Alsa- 
tian accent.  Of  course  she  believes  everything  he 
says.  How  can  she  help  it  when  she  looks  in  his 
face?  They  continue  to  talk,  as  they  enter  the 
house. 

The  little  ones  are  awake  by  this  time,  and,  bare- 
footed, in  their  night-shirts,  they  patter  into  the 
room,  eager  to  welcome  their  big  brother !  He 
must  eat  something,  but,  no,  he  is  not  hungry. 
His  thirst,  however,  knows  no  end ;  he  has  been 
drinking  in  the  pothouse  since  morning,  treated  to 
round  upon  round  of  beer  and  white  wine,  and  now 
he  washes  it  all  down  with  great  gulps  of  water. 

But  a  step  is  heard  in  the  yard.  The  blacksmith 
is  returning. 

"  Christian,  it  is  your  father  !  Quick,  hide,  until 
I  have  had  time  to  speak  to  him,  to  explain  !  " 

And  she  pushes  him  behind  the  tall  porcelain 


A  Renegade  Zouave,  57 

stove,  and  then  turns  to  her  sewing  again  with 
trembling  hands.  But,  unfortunately,  his  zouave's 
cap  is  still  upon  the  table,  and  that  is  the  first  ob- 
ject Lory's  eyes  meet  as  he  enters.  He  observes, 
too,  the  mother's  embarrassment,  her  pale  face,  and 
he  understands  everything. 

"  Christian  is  here !  "  he  says ;  and  the  tone  of 
his  voice  strikes  terror  to  their  hearts.  He  seizes 
his  sabre  with  the  gesture  of  a  maniac,  and  rushes 
towards  the  stove  behind  which  the  zouave  cowers, 
a  ghastly  figure,  suddenly  sobered,  but  leaning 
against  the  wall,  lest  he  should  fall. 

The  mother  throws  herself  between  them. 

"  Lory,  Lory,  do  not  kill  him  !  It  is  my  fault. 
I  wrote  him  to  return,  wrote  him  that  you  needed 
him  in  the  forge." 

She  clings  to  his  arm  and  drags  herself  along, 
sobbing.  In  the  darkness  of  their  chamber  the 
children  hear  sobs  and  angry  words ;  these  voices, 
overcome  with  emotion,  they  no  longer  recognize, 
and  they  too  begin  to  cry.  Suddenly  the  black- 
smith pauses,  and  looks  at  his  wife. 

"  Then  he  returned  because  you  made  him ! 
Very  well !  Let  him  get  to  bed.  To-morrow  I 
will  consider  what  shall  be  done." 

On  awaking  the  next  morning  from  a  heavy 
slumber,  full  of  nightmare  and  baseless  terrors, 
Christian  finds  himself  in  the  very  chamber  he  oc- 
cupied in  childhood.  The  flowering  hop-vines, 
climbing  along  the  tiny  leaden-framed  panes  of  his 
window,  shut  out  some  of  the  daylight,  but  the  sun 
is  warm,  for    already  it  is    high   in  the  heavens 


58  Monday   Tales. 

Below,  the  anvils  are  ringing.  At  the  head  of  his 
bed  sits  his  mother.  Through  the  long  night,  she 
has  not  quitted  his  side  one  moment,  for  her  hus- 
band's wrath  has  made  her  fear.  And  the  old 
man  himself  has  not  slept.  Till  daybreak  his  foot- 
steps are  heard  through  the  house ;  he  opens  and 
closes  one  closet  after  another,  weeping  and  sigh- 
ing. And  now  he  enters  his  son's  room.  His  face 
is  stern.  It  seems  that  he  is  dressed  for  a  journey. 
He  wears  a  tall  hat  and  long  gaiters ;  he  carries  a 
thick  mountain-staff  tipped  with  iron.  He  pro- 
ceeds at  once  to  the  bed  where  his  son  lies,  saying, 
"  Come,  rise  !     It  is  time  to  get  up  !  " 

The  youth,  a  trifle  confused,  is  about  to  put  on 
his  Zouave  trappings. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  those !  "  the  father  says  severely. 

The  mother,  all  apprehension,  replies,  "  But,  my 
friend,  he  has  no  others  to  wear." 

"  Give  him  some  of  mine.  I  shall  not  need  them 
any  more." 

And  as  his  son  dresses,  Lory  carefully  folds  the 
uniform,  the  big  red  trousers,  the  short  jacket, 
and  having  made  a  bundle  of  them,  he  passes  about 
his  neck  the  tin  box  which  contains  his  soldier's- 
papers. 

"  And  now  let  us  go  down,"  he  says.  Then  the 
three  descend  into  the  blacksmith's  shop.  No 
word  is  spoken.  As  they  enter,  they  hear  the 
bellows  blowing.  Every  one  is  at  work.  And  as 
he  sees  that  open  shed  which  he  had  so  often 
recalled  while  he  was  far  away,  the  Zouave  remem- 
bers his  childhood,  and  how  he  played  there  many 


A  Renegade  Zouave.  59 

an  hour  in  the  heat  of  the  road,  and  how  the 
sparks  glittered  against  the  black,  powdery  dust  of 
the  forge.  Sudden  tenderness  fills  his  heart.  He 
longs  for  his  father's  forgiveness,  but  the  look  which 
meets  his  is  inexorable. 

And  now  the  smith  finds  words. 

"  Boy,"  he  says,  "  the  forge  and  the  tools  are 
yours.  And  that  too,"  he  adds,  pointing  to  the 
little  garden  in  the  rear,  which  is  seen  from  the 
smoke-blackened  door,  bathed  in  sunshine,  and 
swarming  with  bees. 

"  The  hives,  the  vines,  the  house,  all  belong  to 
you.  Since  it  was  for  these  things  you  sacrificed 
your  honor,  you  will  at  least  look  after  them.  You 
are  master  here  now.  I  go.  You  owe  France  five 
pears  more  of  service.     I  will  pay  your  debt." 

"  Lory,  Lory,  where  are  you  going?"  cries  the 
poor  wife. 

"  Father !  "  exclaims  the  son,  his  voice  full  of 
entreaty.  But  the  blacksmith  is  gone  while  they 
are  speaking.  He  strides  out  of  sight  without  one 
glance  backward. 

At  Sidi-bel-Abbes,  where  the  Third  Regiment  of 
Zouaves  is  stationed,  there  enlisted  some  days  ago 
a  volunteer  aged  fifty-five  years. 


6o  Monday  Tales. 


THE   CLOCK  OF   BOUGIVAL. 
FROM    BOUGIVAL  TO   MUNICH. 

It  was  a  clock  of  the  Second  Empire,  one  of 
those  timepieces  in  Algerian  onyx,  ornamented  with 
Campana  designs,  —  such  a  clock  as  may  be  pur- 
chased on  the  Boulevard  d'es  Italiens,  its  tiny  gilt 
key  dangling  crosswise  at  the  end  of  a  pink  ribbon. 
A  genuine  Parisian  novelty,  the  frailest,  daintiest, 
most  modern  of  things,  —  a  real  opera  bouffe  clock, 
chiming  with  a  charming  silvery  sweetness,  but 
possessing  not  one  least  grain  of  common-sense, 
and  full  of  caprices  and  crotchets,  striking  the 
hours  after  an  impossible  fashion  of  its  own,  skip- 
ping the  half-hours,  just  knowing  enough  to  an- 
nounce for  Monsieur  the  hour  when  he  must  go  to 
the  Bourse,  and  for  Madame  the  propitious,  eagerly 
awaited  moment.  When  the  war  broke  out,  this 
timepiece  was  rusticating  at  Bougival,  created 
especially  for  one  of  those  fragile  summer-palaces, 
those  butterfly  cages,  with  paper  frills,  —  migratory 
establishments  that  are  not  meant  to  outlast  a 
season,  but  adorned  with  lace,  muslin,  and  light 
silken  transparencies.  After  the  arrival  of  the 
Bavarians  it  was  one  of  the  first  prizes  to  be  carried 
off,  and  really  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
these   people   from   over  the  Rhine  had  no  little 


i 


The  Clock  of  Bougival.  61 

skill  at  packing,  for  that  plaything  of  a  clock, 
scarcely  bigger  than  a  turtle-dove's  egg,  was  able 
to  make  that  journey  from  Bougival  to  Munich,  in 
the  midst  of  Krupp  guns  and  carts  loaded  with 
grapeshot,  arriving  safe  and  sound,  and  on  the 
very  next  day  showed  its  face  in  the  shop-window 
of  Augustus  Cahn,  dealer  in  curiosities,  Odeon- 
Platz,  as  fresh,  as  coquettish  as  ever,  with  its  two 
delicate  hands  black  and  curved  as  two  eyelashes, 
and  its  gilt  key  still  dangling  crosswise  at  the  end  of 
a  new  ribbon. 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DOCTOR-PROFESSOR  OTTO 
VON    SCHWANTHALER. 

This  arrival  was  an  event  for  Munich.  No  one 
there  had  ever  seen  a  Bougival  clock  before  ;  every 
one  came  to  look  at  it,  regarding  it  with  as  much 
curiosity  as  the  Japanese  shells  in  the  Siebold 
museum  afforded.  In  front  of  Augustus  Calm's 
store  spectators  stood  three  rows  deep,  smoking 
their  pipes  from  morning  till  night,  and  the  good 
people  of  Munich,  their  eyes  bulging  out  of  their 
heads,  asked  each  other  with  many  an  astounded 
"  Mein  Gott  /"  to  what  use  this  singular  little  ma- 
chine might  be  put.  Illustrated  journals  printed 
pictures  of  it.  Its  photograph  was  in  every  window, 
and  in  its  honor  did  the  illustrious  Doctor-Professor 
Otto  von  Schwanthaler  compose  his  famous  Paradox 
7/pon  Clocks,  a  philosophico-humoristic  study  of  six 


62  Monday  Tales. 

hundred  pages,  which  treats  of  the  influence  of 
clocks  upon  the  character  of  various  nationalities, 
and  logically  demonstrates  that  a  nation  so  sense- 
less as  to  regulate  the  employment  of  its  time  by 
such  erratic  chronometers  as  that  clock  of  Bougival, 
could  no  more  expect  to  escape  every  sort  of 
catastrophe  than  a  ship  which  should  put  to  sea 
with  its  compass  gone  astray.  (The  phrase  is  a 
trifle  long,  but  I  have  translated  it  literally.) 

Once  engaged  upon  an  investigation,  the 
Germans  do  not  trifle  with  it,  and  before  writing 
his  Paradox,  the  illustrious  Doctor-Professor  was 
anxious  to  have  the  subject  of  his  researches  under 
his  eyes,  that  he  might  study  it  thoroughly,  and 
analyze  it  to  the  minutest  details,  with  the  zeal  of 
an  entomologist;  and  so  he  purchased  the  clock, 
and  that  explains  how  it  passed  from  Augustus 
Cahn's  store  into  the  salon  of  the  illustrious  Doctor- 
Professor  Otto  von  Schwanthaler,  custodian  of  the 
Pinakothek,  and  member  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  and  Fine  Arts,  and  was  installed  in  his 
private  residence,  24  Ludwigstrasse. 


THE    SCHWANTHALER   SALON. 

THAT  which  one  was  sure  to  observe  first  of  all 
in  entering  the  Schwanthaler  salon,  solemn  and 
academic  as  a  conference-hall,  was  a  tall  marble 
clock,  severely  classic  in  detail,  but  having  a  bronze 
Polymnia,  and  extremely  complicated  machinery. 


The  Clock  of  Bougival.  63 

Its  large  face  encircled  a  number  of  smaller  ones  ; 
the  hours,  the  minutes,  and  the  seasons  were  rep- 
resented;  the  equinoxes  and  even  the  phases  of 
the  moon  could  be  seen  in  a  bright  blue  cloud  on 
the  base  of  this  timepiece,  in  the  centre.  The 
sound  of  this  mighty  machine  filled  the  whole 
house.  Even  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  its  pendulum 
could  be  heard,  swinging  ponderously  to  an  i  fro, 
with  solemn  emphasis,  seeming  to  measure  and 
divide  life  itself  into  fragments  of  equal  length. 
Through  that  sonorous  tick-tock  throbbed  the 
vibrations  of  the  hand  which  marked  the  seconds, 
as  it  went  round  and  round  its  face,  with  the  fever- 
ish energy  of  a  spider  fully  aware  of  the  value  of 
time. 

Then  the  hour  would  strike  sadly  and  slowly  as  a 
college-clock,  and  its  striking  always  announced 
some  event  in  the  Schwanthaler  household.  At 
that  precise  moment  Herr  von  Schwanthaler  set 
out  for  the  Pinakothek,  loaded  with  papers,  or  his 
honored  lady  had  just  returned  from  a  sermon  with 
her  daughters,  three  lank,  much-befrilled  girls,  who 
looked  like  hop-poles ;  sometimes  the  clock  an- 
nounced that  it  was  time  for  the  dancing-lesson, 
the  zither  lesson,  or  for  gymnastics;  prompt  on 
the  hour,  the  piano  was  opened,  the  embroidery- 
frame  brought  forth,  or  music-stands  were  rolled 
into  the  salon,  and  ensemble-music  began  ;  and 
every  act  of  this  household  was  so  methodical, 
orderly,  and  well-regulated  that  the  spectator  who 
observed  all  these  Schwanthalers  set  in  motion  on 
the  exact  stroke  of  the  clock,  coming  in  or  going 


64  Monday   Tales. 

out  through  the  opened  folding-doors,  might  have 
fancied  he  saw  before  him  that  procession  of  the 
Apostles  in  the  Clock  of  Strasbourg,  might  have 
expected  that  upon  the  last  stroke  the  entire 
Schwanthaler  family  would  re-enter  and  disappear 
forever  in  their  clock. 


SINGULAR    INFLUENCE     OF    THE     BOUGIVAL 

CLOCK   UPON    AN    HONEST   FAMILY  OF 

MUNICH. 

Now  it  was  beside  that  monument  they  placed 
the  clock  from  Bougival,  and  you  can  easily  imagine 
the  effect  that  saucy  bit  of  fragile  finery  produced  ! 
One  evening,  as  the  Schwanthaler  ladies  were  busied 
with  their  embroidery  in  the  large  salon,  and  the 
illustrious  Doctor- Professor  was  reading  to  some  ot 
his  colleagues  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences  the  first 
pages  of  the  Paradox,  pausing  from  time  to  time 
to  lift  the  little  clock  and  to  make,  as  it  were,  a 
blackboard  demonstration  concerning  it,  suddenly 
Eva  von  Schwanthaler,  impelled  by  I  know  not 
what  accursed  curiosity,  said  to  her  father,  blushing 
slightly,  — 

"  O  papa,  make  it  ring !  " 

The  doctor  detached  the  key,  turned  it  twice, 
and  a  crystalline  sound  was  heard,  so  silvery,  clear, 
and  bright  that  a  sudden  quiver  of  gaiety  passed 
through  that  solemn  assemblage.  All  eyes 
sparkled. 


The  Clock  of  BougivaL  65 

"  Is  n't  it  pretty,  is  n't  it  pretty?  "  exclaimed  the 
young  ladies,  tossing  their  braids  with  such  a  lively 
little  air  that  one  could  scarcely  recognize  them. 

Then  Herr  von  Schwanthaler  observed  trium- 
phantly, — 

"  Look  at  that  crazy  little  French  clock  !  It  has 
just  struck  eight,  and  the  hour-hand  is  at  three." 

Every  one  laughed  at  this,  and  notwithstanding 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  gentlemen  plunged 
into  philosophical  theories  and  interminable  re- 
flections upon  the  frivolity  of  the  French  people. 
Every  one  forgot  that  it  was  time  to  go  home,  deaf 
even  to  Polymnia's  dial  announcing  ominously  that 
it  was  ten  o'clock,  the  hour  which  ordinarily  dis- 
persed the  assembled  guests.  The  great  clock 
could  not  understand  what  it  all  meant.  Never 
before  had  it  seen  such  hilarity  in  the  Schwan- 
thaler residence ;  never  had  it  seen  people  linger- 
ing so  late  in  the  salon.  And,  shocking  to  relate, 
when  the  Misses  Schwanthaler  had  retired  to  their 
room,  they  had  sat  up  so  late,  and  laughed  so 
much,  that  they  felt  a  hollow,  empty  sensation  in 
the  stomach,  as  if  they  were  really  hungry,  and 
the  sentimental  Minna  herself,  with  arms  out- 
stretched, exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah,  I  believe  I  could  eat  a  lobster-claw !  " 


"LET  US    BE   GAY,  CHILDREN,  LET   US   BE 
GAY ! " 

ONCE  it  was  wound  up,  the  Bougival  clock  fell 
into  its  old,  irregular  life,  its  habits  of  dissipation. 
5 


66  Monday   Tales. 

They  had  begun  by  laughing  at  its  crotchets,  but 
by  degrees,  growing  accustomed  to  that  charming 
chime,  which  sounded  according  to  caprice  and 
never  told  the  right  time,  the  serious  Schwanthaler 
family  lost  all  regard  for  time,  and  spent  their  days 
with  delightful  unconcern.  They  thought  now  of 
nothing  but  amusement.  Human  life  seemed  so 
short,  since  they  no  longer  kept  run  of  the  hours. 
Everything  was  turned  upside  down.  No  more 
sermons,  no  more  studies !  They  felt  the  need  of 
excitement,  of  stir.  Mendelssohn  and  Schumann 
had  grown  too  monotonous,  and  were  replaced  with 
La  Grande  Duchesse,  and  Le  Petit  Faust,  and  the 
Frauleins  strummed  and  strummed  and  danced, 
while  even  the  illustrious  Doctor-Professor,  seized 
with  a  sort  of  vertigo,  was  able  only  to  say,  "  Let 
us  be  gay,  children,  let  us  be  gay !  "  As  for  the 
big  clock,  it  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  young 
ladies  had  stopped  the  pendulum,  pretending  that 
it  kept  them  from  sleeping,  and  the  household  was 
run  according  to  the  caprice  of  that  timepiece 
which  struck  one  hour  when  it  marked  another. 

And  then  appeared  the  famous  Paradox  upon 
Clocks.  On  this  occasion  the  Schwanthalers  gave 
a  great  soiree,  not  one  of  those  academic  evenings 
such  as  they  once  enjoyed,  quiet,  and  not  too  bril- 
liant, but  a  magnificent  masquerade-ball,  at  which 
Frau  von  Schwanthaler  and  her  three  daughters 
appeared  as  canotieres  of  Bougival,  bare-armed 
and  in  short  skirts  and  tiny  hats  with  gaudy  rib- 
bons. All  this  was  soon  the  talk  of  the  town,  but 
it  was   merely  the   beginning.     Tableaux-vivants, 


The  Clock  of  BougivaL  67 

late  suppers  and  baccarat,  —  scandalized  Munich 
witnessed  one  thing  after  another  that  winter  in 
the  academician's  salon.  "  Let  us  be  gay,  chil- 
dren, let  us  be  gay ! "  repeated  the  poor  man, 
utterly  distracted,  and,  indeed,  they  were  all  ex- 
tremely gay.  Frau  von  Schwanthaler,  become 
fashionable  since  her  success  as  a  canotiere,  passed 
her  days  upon  the  Isar,  wearing  extravagant  cos- 
tumes. Her  daughters,  left  at  home,  took  French 
lessons  of  some  hussar  officers  imprisoned  in  the 
city,  and  the  little  clock,  having  every  reason  for 
believing  itself  still  at  Bougival,  continued  to  ring 
at  random,  always  striking  eight  when  the  hand 
stood  at  three.  At  last,  one  morning,  this  mad 
whirl  of  folly  carried  off  the  entire  Schwanthaler 
family  to  America,  and  the  finest  Titians  of  the 
Pinakothek  followed  their  illustrious  custodian  in 
his  flight. 

CONCLUSION. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Schwanthalers,  a 
perfect  epidemic  of  scandals  broke  out  in  Munich. 
First,  a  canoness  eloped  with  a  baritone ;  the  Dean 
of  the  Institute  wedded  a  ballet-dancer ;  an  Aulic 
councillor  was  caught  cheating  at  cards;  and  the 
convent  established  for  noble  women  was  closed 
because  of  a  nocturnal  disturbance. 

Oh,  depravity  of  inanimate  things !  It  would 
seem  that  this  little  clock  had  some  magic  power, 
and  that  it  had  resolved  to  bewitch  all  Bavaria. 
Wherever  it  went,  wherever  that  giddy  but  charm- 


68  Monday   Talcs. 

ing  little  chime  sounded,  it  distracted  people,  turned 
their  heads.  At  last,  passing  from  one  plac*3:  to 
another,  it  took  up  its  abode  in  the  Royal  Resi- 
dence. And  since  that  day,  do  you  know  the 
name  of  that  score  which  lies,  always  open,  upon 
the  piano  of  King  Louis,  the  rabid  Wagnerian? 

"  Die  Meistet stinger  ?  " 

"  No !  Le  Phoque  a  ventre  blanc!  Just  the 
»:hing  to  teach  them  how  to  use  our  clocks !  " 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  69 


THE   DEFENCE   OF  TARASCON. 

God  be  praised !  at  last,  news  of  Tarascon ! 
For  five  months  I  have  merely  existed,  such  was 
my  state  of  suspense  !  Knowing  the  exaltation  of 
that  good  town,  knowing  the  bellicose  humor  of  its 
inhabitants,  I  said  to  myself  again  and  again,  Who 
can  tell  what  Tarascon  has  been  doing?  May  it 
not  have  rushed  in  a  body  upon  the  barbarians, 
been  bombarded  like  Strasbourg,  burned  alive  like 
Chateaudun?  Perhaps,  like  Paris,  it  is  dying  of 
hunger !  Perhaps,  like  Laon  and  its  intrepid  cita- 
del, it  has  been  blown  up  in  a  savage  paroxysm  of 
patriotism.  None  of  these  things,  my  friends. 
Tarascon  has  not  been  burned,  Tarascon  is  not 
blown  up !  Tarascon  is  where  it  has  always  been, 
its  peaceful  site  surrounded  by  vineyards,  the  glad 
sunshine  flooding  its  streets,  its  cellars  full  of  fine 
Muscat,  and  the  Rhone,  which  bathes  that  amiable 
locality,  bears  to  the  sea,  as  of  old,  the  image  of  a 
prosperous  town;  and  on  the  river's  shining  sur- 
face may  still  be  seen  the  reflection  of  green  blinds, 
and  well-raked  gardens,  and  militia,  in  new  coats, 
drilling  all  along  the  quay. 

But  do  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  Tarascon 
has  been  sitting  with  hands  folded  during  the  war 
On  the  contrary,  it  has  behaved  admirably,  and  its 


70  Monday   Tales. 

heroic  resistance,  which  I  shall  attempt  to  describe 
to  you,  deserves  its  place  in  history  as  a  type  of 
local  resistance,  a  living  symbol  of  the  defence  of 
the  South! 


THE   SINGING-SOCIETIES. 

I  WILL  admit  that,  until  Sedan  was  fought,  our 
gallant  Tarasconians  stayed  at  home,  and  their  sen- 
timents were  quite  peaceful.  These  proud  sons  of 
the  Alpilles  never  considered  that  possibly  the 
Fatherland  had  received  its  death-blow  on  this 
battlefield.  It  was  the  Empire,  and  the  Emperor's 
soldiers  that  were  perishing.  But  once  the  Fourth 
of  September  had  come  and  the  Republic,  with 
Attila  encamped  about  Paris,  ah !  then  it  was  that 
Tarascon  awoke,  and  perceived  this  was  naught 
else  than  a  national  war !  Of  course  it  began  with 
a  demonstration  on  the  part  of  the  Singing-Socie- 
ties. You  know  what  a  passion  for  music  they 
have  in  the  South.  At  Tarascon  especially  it  be- 
comes a  perfect  frenzy.  In  the  streets,  as  you  pass, 
all  the  windows  are  singing  at  you,  and  every 
balcony  drops  romantic  lays  upon  your  head  ! 

No  matter  what  shop  you  enter,  at  the  desk  there 
is  always  a  guitar  sighing,  and  even  the  apothe- 
cary's boys,  as  they  serve  you,  whistle  "  The  Night- 
ingale," and  "  The  Spanish  Lute  "  —  Tra  la  la!  la 
la  la!  And,  as  if  these  private  concerts  were  not 
enough,  the  Tarasconese  have  also  a  town  brass 
band,  a  college  band,  and  I  dare  not  say  how  many 
singing-societies. 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  Ji 

It  was  Saint  Christopher's  singing-society  and 
its  admirable  three-part  chorus,  "  On,  to  save 
France  !  '*  which  struck  the  first  note  of  the  national 
movement. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  —  On  to  save  France  !  "  cried  the 
worthy  Tarasconian,  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved 
from  the  windows,  and  men  clapped  their  hands, 
and  women  threw  kisses  to  the  harmonious 
phalanx,  which  paraded  the  Esplanade,  marching 
four  rows  deep,  keeping  step  proudly,  a  banner  at 
its  head.  An  impetus  had  been  given  to  the  move- 
ment. From  that  day  no  more  barcarolles,  no 
more  pensive  sighing  of  guitars.  Everywhere 
"  The  Spanish  Lute  "  yielded  to  "The  Marseillaise," 
and  twice  every  week  people  were  almost  smoth- 
ered upon  the  Esplanade,  where  they  gathered  to 
listen  to  the  college  band  playing  the  Chant  du 
Depart.     Fabulous  prices  were  paid  for  seats. 

But  the  Tarasconese  did  not  stop  at  that. 


THE  CAVALCADES. 

AFTER  the  demonstration  of  the  singing-socie- 
ties, there  were  historical  cavalcades  for  the  benefit 
of  the  wounded.  What  more  pleasing  sight  than 
that  presented  upon  a  bright  Sabbath-day,  when 
all  the  valorous  youth  of  Tarascon  might  be  seen, 
in  hunting-boots  and  light  tights,  soliciting  con- 
tributions from' door  to  door,  and  caracoling  under 
the  balconies,  armed  with  halberds  and  butterfly- 
nets  !     But  finest  of  all  was  a  patriotic  tournament, 


72  Monday  Tales. 

—  Francis  I.  at  the  battle  of  Pavia.  This  was  held 
thrice  in  succession  on  the  Esplanade  by  the  gentle- 
men of  the  Club.  He  who  missed  that  sight  has  not 
lived  !  The  Marseilles  Theatre  loaned  the  costumes. 
Gold  and  silk  and  velvet,  embroidered  standards, 
shields  and  helmets,  caparisons,  ribbons,  bow-knots, 
rosettes,  lance-heads,  and  breastplates,  made  the 
Esplanade  flash  and  glitter  like  a  mirror  for  entic- 
ing larks.  And  then  a  strong,  sudden  breath  of  the 
Mistral,  which  handled  all  this  splendor  some- 
what roughly.  It  was  indeed  a  magnificent  sight. 
But,  unfortunately,  when,  after  a  fierce  contest, 
Francis  I.  —  Monsieur  Bompard,  director  of  the 
Club  —  found  that  he  was  surrounded  by  a  body 
of  Reiters,  the  luckless  Bompard,  in  surrendering 
his  sword,  did  so  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  so 
enigmatic  that,  instead  of  announcing  "  All  is  lost 
save  honor !  "  it  seemed  rather  to  say :  "  Digo-li 
que  vengue,  moun  bon  !  " 1  But  the  Tarasconese 
were  not  too  close  observers,  and  patriotic  tears 
sparkled  in  every  eye. 

THE   BREACH. 

With  such  spectacles  as  these,  such  songs,  amid 
such  glory  of  river  and  sky,  no  wonder  all  heads 
were  turned.  And  their  exaltation  reached  its 
highest  point  upon  reading  the  Government  Bulle- 
tins. People  accosted  each  other  upon  the  Espla- 
nade with  a  threatening  air,  their  teeth  tightly 
closed,  chewing   their  words  like  bullets.     Their 

1  Provencal.     "  Tell  him  to  come  on,  my  brave  I  " 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  73 

conversations  smelt  of  powder.  There  was  salt- 
petre in  the  air !  And,  above  all,  one  should  have 
heard  these  effervescent  Tarasconians  at  a  break- 
fast in  the  Cafe  de  la  Come'die. 

They  would  exclaim,  "  What  are  they  doing,  these 
Parisians,  with  that  tron  de  Dieu  General  Trochu 
of  theirs  ?  They  will  never,  never  cut  through  the 
enemy !  Coquin  de  bon  sort /  If  now  it  was 
Tarascon  !  Trrr  !  Long  ago  we  would  have  made 
a  breach !  "  and  while  Paris  was  choking  upon  its 
oat-bread,  these  gentlemen  devoured  succulent 
red-legged  partridges,  washing  them  down  with  the 
good  wine  of  Avignon,  and  when  they  had  eaten 
till  they  could  eat  no  more,  their  shining  faces 
steeped  in  gravy  up  to  the  ears,  they  would  shout 
like  deaf  men,  striking  the  table  vigorously,  "  A 
breach  there!  Make  a  breach,  why  don't  you?" 
And  really,  they  were  quite  right  about  it ! 


THE   CLUB'S    DEFENCE. 

Meanwhile  the  barbarian  invasion  was  grad- 
ually gaining  southward.  Dijon  taken,  Lyon  was 
threatened,  and  already  the  Uhlans'  mares  had 
caught  a  whiff  of  the  fragrant  fields  of  the  Rhone 
Valley,  and  neighed  longingly  for  them.  "  Let  us 
organize  our  defence,"  said  the  Tarasconese,  and 
every  one  set  to  work.  In  an  instant  the  town  was 
protected,  barricaded,  casemated.  Every  house 
became  a  fortress.  At  Costecalde's,  the  gunsmith, 
there  was  in  front  of  the  shop,  a  trench  two  metres 


74  Monday   Tales. 

wide,  with  a  drawbridge  too,  —  really  a  charming 
affair !  At  the  Club  the  defensive  works  were  of 
such  magnitude  that  every  one  visited  them,  moved 
by  curiosity.  Monsieur  Bompard,  the  Club's 
director,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  his 
chassepot  in  one  hand,  and  furnished  explanations 
to  the  ladies.  "  If  they  should  approach  on  this 
side,  piff!  paff!  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they  come 
from  that  direction,  piff!  paff!  "  And  at  every 
street-corner  people  would  stop  you  with  a  myste- 
rious air,  and  tell  you,  "  The  Cafe'  de  la  Come'die  is 
impregnable  !  "  or  even  more  mysteriously,  "  They 
have  just  put  torpedoes  under  the  Esplanade !  " 
Certainly  the  barbarians  might  do  well  to  reflect ! 


THE   SHARP-SHOOTERS. 

At  the  same  time  companies  of  sharp-shooters 
were  organized  with  an  enthusiasm  amounting  to 
frenzy.  Brothers  of  Death,  Narbonnese  Jackals, 
Blunderbiissers  of  the  Rhone,  —  they  had  all  sorts 
of  titles  and  colors,  like  the  centaurea  in  a  field  of 
oats ;  and  such  panaches,  and  cock's-plumes, 
gigantic  hats,  and  enormous  belts  !  That  he  might 
have  a  more  formidable  air,  every  sharp-shooter 
allowed  his  moustache  and  beard  to  grow,  so  that 
one  acquaintance  could  no  longer  recognize 
another  if  they  met,  out  for  a  walk.  At  a  distance 
you  would  sight  a  brigand  of  the  Abruzzi,  bear- 
ing down  upon  you  with  flaming  eyes,  bristling 
moustache,  and  a  rattling  of  sabres,  revolvers,  and 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  75 

yataghans;  and  when  he  came  nearer  it  was  only 
Pegoulade,  the  collector.  Another  time  you  would 
encounter  on  the  stairway  Robinson  Crusoe  him- 
self, with  his  pointed  hat,  saw-toothed  cutlass,  and 
gun  upon  his  shoulder,  but,  after  all,  it  was  only  the 
gunsmith  Costecalde,  returning  from  town  where 
he  had  been  dining.  But,  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
in  giving  themselves  such  a  ferocious  appearance, 
the  Tarasconese  actually  became  frightened  of 
themselves,  and  soon  no  one  dared  walk  abroad. 


WILD   RABBITS   AND   TAME   RABBITS. 

The  Bordeaux  decree  for  the  organization  of 
the  national  guards  put  an  end  to  this  intolerable 
situation.  At  the  powerful  bidding  of  the  tri- 
umvirs, prrrt!  the  cock's-plumes  suddenly  van- 
ished, and  Jackals,  Blunderbussers,  and  others 
presented  themselves  to  be  made  into  honest 
militia-men,  under  orders  of  the  gallant  General 
Bravida,  aged  Captain  of  the  Wardrobe.  Now  en- 
sued new  complications.  The  Bordeaux  decree, 
as  you  know,  recognized  two  classes  in  the  national 
guards,  the  national  guard  that  was  to  form  part 
of  the  moving  army,  and  the  sedentaires, — "the  wild 
rabbits,  and  the  tame  rabbits,"  as  Pegoulade  the 
collector  observed  drolly  enough.  At  first,  while 
the  companies  were  forming,  those  of  the  guard 
who  were  wild  rabbits  naturally  had  the  leading 
role  to  play.  Every  morning  they  drilled  upon 
the  Esplanade,  gallant   General   Bravida   at  their 


76  Monday   Tales. 

head;  there  was  firing  and  skirmishing  — 
"  Couchez-vous!  levez-vous!" —  and  divers  orders. 
These  sham- fights  attracted  crowds  of  spectators. 
The  ladies  of  Tarascon  would  not  miss  a  single  one 
of  them,  and  even  the  ladies  from  Beaucaire  would 
sometimes  cross  the  bridge,  just  to  admire  our 
rabbits.  All  this  time,  those  poor  tame  rabbits  of 
the  national  guard  modestly  did  duty-service  in  the 
town,  and  were  on  guard  before  the  museum,  where 
there  was  nothing  to  guard  but  an  old  lizard  stuffed 
with  moss,  and  two  falcons  of  the  time  of  good  King 
Rene;  and  besides,  the  Beaucaire  ladies  never 
crossed  the  bridge  to  see  them !  But  after  three 
months  of  skirmishing,  when  it  was  perceived  that 
the  wild  rabbits  of  the  national  guard  never  once 
budged  from  the  Esplanade,  the  popular  enthusiasm 
began  to  cool. 

All  in  vain  did  General  Bravida  cry  to  his  rab- 
bits, "Couchez-vous!  levez-vous  !  "  No  one  watched 
them  now,  and  soon  these  mock-skirmishes  were 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  town.  Heaven  knows, 
it  was  not  the  fault  of  these  unfortunate  rabbits 
that  they  received  no  marching  orders.  They 
were  mad  enough  about  it.  At  last  one  day  they 
refused  to  drill. 

"  No  more  parade  !  "  they  cried  with  patriotic 
fervor ;  "  we  are  the  moving  army,  and  we  want  to 
march !  " 

"  And  so  you  shall,  or  my  name  will  not  be  Bra- 
vida !  "  exclaimed  the  gallant  general,  and  swelling 
with  anger  he  went  to  the  tnairie,  and  demanded 
an  explanation.     At  the  mairie,  he  was    told  no 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  yy 

orders  had  been  received ;  it  was  for  the  prefecture 
to  give  them. 

11  To  the  prefecture,  then,  I  will  go,"  said  Bravida ; 
and  a  little  later  he  was  on  the  express,  bound  for 
Marseilles,  in  search  of  the  prefect.  Now  this  was 
no  easy  matter,  for  at  Marseilles  there  are  five  or 
six  prefects  permanently  located,  and  none  who 
can  tell  you  which  one  of  them  all  is  the  special 
prefect  with  whom  you  have  to  do.  However,  by 
a  stroke  of  good  luck,  Bravida  put  his  hand  upon 
the  right  one  at  the  first  moment,  for  all  the  pre- 
fects were  assembled  in  council,  when  the  gallant 
general  addressed  them  in  the  name  of  his  men, 
and  with  all  the  authority  of  a  veteran  Captain  of 
the  Wardrobe. 

But  after  he  had  spoken  a  few  words,  the  prefect 
interrupted  him, — 

"  Pardon,  general,  but  how  is  it  that  your  soldiers 
ask  you  that  they  may  be  allowed  to  move,  while 
they  ask  me  for  permission  to  stay  at  home  !  Read 
this." 

And  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  he  tendered  the 
general  a  most  pathetic  petition  addressed  to  the 
prefecture,  emanating  from  two  of  the  wild  rabbits, 
the  very  ones  who  had  displayed  the  most  furious 
zeal  for  marching ;  the  petition  contained  a  post- 
script from  the  doctor,  from  the  priest,  and  from 
the  notary  of  the  town,  and  the  petitioners  re- 
quested that  on  account  of  physical  infirmities  they 
might  be  permitted  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  tame 
rabbits. 

"  And  I  have  more  than  three  hundred  just  like 


78  Monday   Tales. 

them,"  added  the  prefect,  still  smiling.  "  Now  you 
understand,  general,  why  we  have  not  pressed  your 
men  to  march.  Unfortunately,  too  many  already 
have  been  compelled  to  move,  when  they  wanted 
to  stay  at  home.  No  more  of  that !  And  so,  God 
save  the  Republic !  and  —  good  luck  to  your 
rabbits !  " 


THE   FAREWELL   PUNCH. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  the  general  returned  to 
Tarascon  crestfallen.  But  now  for  another  story  ! 
What  had  the  Tarasconese  done  during  his  absence  ? 
They  had  actually  completed  all  the  arrangements 
for  a  farewell  punch,  by  subscription,  for  the  rabbits 
who  were  about  to  leave  !  All  to  no  purpose  did 
the  gallant  General  Bravida  inform  them  that  they 
need  not  take  the  trouble,  that  no  one  was  going 
to  leave.  The  punch  was  subscribed  for,  ordered ; 
nothing  remained  now  but  to  drink  it,  and  they 
did.  And  so,  one  Sunday  evening,  that  touching 
ceremony  of  drinking  the  farewell  punch  took 
place  in  the  rooms  of  the  mairie>  and  through  the 
small  hours  toasts,  vivats,  addresses,  and  patriotic 
songs  made  the  windows  of  the  municipal  building 
tremble.  Every  one  knew,  of  course,  how  much 
significance  this  farewell  punch  had.  The  tame 
rabbits  of  the  guard,  who  had  paid  for  it,  were 
strongly  convinced  that  their  comrades  had  no  in- 
tention of  leaving.  The  wild  rabbits,  who  drank 
the  punch,  were  of  the  same  conviction,  and  the 


The  Defence  of  Tarascon.  jg 

venerable  deputy-mayor,  who,  in  a  voice  trembling 
with  emotion,  protested  in  the  hearing  of  all  these 
braves  that  he  was  ready  to  march  at  their  head, 
knew  better  than  any  other  there  that  they  were 
not  to  march  at  all.  But  what  difference  did  that 
make  ?  These  meridionaux  are  such  extraordinary 
creatures  that  before  the  farewell  punch  was  fin- 
ished everybody  was  in  tears,  every  one  embracing 
his  neighbor,  and,  strangest  of  all,  everybody  was 
sincere  about  it,  even  the  general. 

At  Tarascon,  as  indeed  throughout  all  the  South 
of  France,  I  have  frequently  observed  this  result  of 
mirage. 


8o  Monday   Tales. 


BELISAIRE'S   PRUSSIAN. 

Here  is  an  incident  I  heard  related  in  a  pot- 
house at  Montmartre.  To  repeat  it  to  you  as  it 
was  told,  I  ought  to  have  the  local  vocabulary  of 
Master  Bdlisaire,  his  big  carpenter's  apron,  and  two 
or  three  draughts  of  that  fine  white  wine  of  Mont- 
martre, which  can  give  a  Parisian  accent  even  to  a 
Frenchman  from  Marseilles !  Then  I  should  be 
sure  the  same  shiver  would  pass  through  your 
veins  as  thrilled  mine  in  hearing  Belisaire  narrate 
to  a  tableful  of  companions  this  lugubrious  and 
veritable  story. 

"  It  was  the  day  after  the  amnesty  n  ("  the  armis- 
tice" Belisaire  would  say).  "  My  wife  had  sent 
us  both,  the  boy  and  me,  to  take  a  walk  around 
Villeneuve-la-Garenne,  for  we  had  a  little  shanty 
there,  at  the  river's  edge,  and  we  had  been  without 
news  of  it  ever  since  the  siege  began.  I  was  both- 
ered at  having  to  take  the  boy  along,  for  I  knew 
we  should  run  into  the  Prussians,  and  as  I  had 
never  met  any  of  them  before,  I  felt  sure  that  some- 
thing would  happen.  But  the  mother  stuck  to  her 
idea,  and  said  '  Go,  go !  then  the  child  will  get  an 
airing.' 

"  And  indeed  the  poor  thing  needed  one  badly 
enough,  after    five  months  of  siege  and   mildew! 


Belisaires  Prussian.  81 

And  so  we  both  started  out  for  the  country. 
Maybe  the  brat  was  n't  pleased  to  find  out  that 
there  were  still  trees  and  birds ;  maybe  he  did  n't 
paddle  through  the  plough-lands  !  But  I  did  n't 
enjoy  myself  quite  so  much.  There  were  too  many 
helmets  along  the  road.  From  the  canal  to  the 
Island  I  saw  nothing  else.  Insolent  dogs !  one 
had  to  hold  on  to  himself  with  all  his  might  to  keep 
from  hammering  one  or  two !  But,  you  may  be- 
lieve, I  nearly  boiled  over  when  I  entered  Ville- 
neuve,  and  saw  our  poor  gardens  completely  ruined, 
our  houses  open,  turned  inside  out,  and  those  ban- 
dits making  themselves  at  home  in  our  quarters, 
calling  from  window  to  window,  hanging  their 
woollen  shirts  upon  our  shutters  and  trellises. 
Luckily  the  child  was  at  my  side,  and  when  my 
hand  itched  too  much  I  thought  as  I  looked  at 
him :  '  Keep  cool,  Belisaire.  Look  out  that  no 
harm  happens  to  the  youngster ! '  Only  that  saved 
me  from  making  a  fool  of  myself.  I  understood 
then  why  the  mother  wanted  me  to  take  him  along. 
"  Our  shanty  stood  at  the  end  of  the  road,  last 
one  on  the  right  hand,  on  the  quay.  I  found  it 
had  been  emptied  from  top  to  bottom,  just  like  the 
others.  Not  a  bit  of  furniture,  not  so  much  as  a 
pane  of  glass  left.  Only  a  few  bundles  of  straw ; 
the  last  leg  of  the  big  arm-chair  was  crackling  in 
the  chimney-place.  I  scented  Prussians  every- 
where, but  could  n't  see  one.  Then  it  did  seem  to 
me  that  I  heard  something  stirring  down  in  the 
basement.  I  had  a  little  bench  there,  where  I 
amused  myself  of  a  Sunday  at  odd  jobs.  I  told 
6 


82  Monday  Tales. 

the  boy  to  wait  for  me  where  he  was,  and  I  went 
downstairs  to  look  for  myself. 

"  No  sooner  had  I  opened  the  door  than  one  of 
William's  soldiers,  a  big  brute  of  a  fellow,  sprang 
with  a  snort  from  beneath  a  pile  of  shavings,  and 
rushed  towards  me,  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head, 
and  with  all  manner  of  oaths  I  understood  not  a 
word  of!  He  must  have  felt  out  of  sorts  when  he 
awoke,  for  at  the  first  word  I  attempted  to  say,  he 
started  to  draw  his  sword. 

"  I  was  struck  of  a  heap.  All  the  spleen  which 
had  been  gathering  for  the  last  hour  was  upper- 
most. I  gripped  the  big  iron  clamp  of  the  bench, 
and  I  struck.  You  know,  comrades,  that  Belisaire's 
fist  is  no  light  one  on  ordinary  occasions,  but  that 
day  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  the  Almighty's  thunder- 
bolts at  the  end  of  my  arm.  The  very  first  blow 
knocked  my  Prussian  silly.  There  he  lay,  sprawl- 
ing at  full  length.  I  thought  he  was  only  stunned. 
Well,  yes !  stunned  he  was,  done  for,  my  boys. 
The  neatest,  cleanest  bit  of  work !  —  as  if  he  'd 
been  washed  in  potash.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
eh? 

"  And  I,  who  had  never  killed  anything  in  my  life 
before,  not  so  much  as  a  lark !  It  seemed  queer 
enough  to  see  that  big  carcass  stretched  in  front  of 
me.  My  word  for  it,  he  was  a  fair,  handsome  fel- 
low, with  a  funny  little  beard,  that  curled  just  like 
ash  shavings.  My  legs  shook  under  me  as  I  looked 
at  him.  By  this  time,  the  boy  had  grown  tired  up- 
stairs, and  I  heard  him  crying  at  the  full  strength 
of  his  lungs,  '  Papa,  papa  ! ' 


Belisaires  Prussian.  83 

"  The  Prussians  were  passing  along  the  road ;  I 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  their  sabres  and  their  big 
legs  through  the  air-hole  of  the  basement.  Sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  me :  '  If  they  get  in,  the  child 
is  lost!  They'll  kill  every  one  they  find.  That 
was  the  end  of  it.  I  trembled  no  longer.  I  shoved 
my  Prussian  hastily  under  the  bench,  covering  him 
with  everything  I  could  find,  boards  and  sawdust 
and  shavings ;  then  I  went  upstairs  to  find  the  boy. 

"  '  Come  along.' 

"'What's  the  matter,  papa?  How  pale  you 
look ! ' 

"  '  Come,  come  ! ' 

"  And  I  can  tell  you,  if  those  Cossacks  had  turned 
me  upside  down,  searched  me  through  and  through, 
I  'd  have  offered  no  objection.  It  seemed  to  me 
every  moment  that  I  heard  some  one  running, 
crying,  at  our  backs;  once  I  heard  a  horse,  close 
upon  us,  going  at  a  gallop.  It  startled  me  so  I 
thought  I  should  drop.  But  after  the  bridge  was 
passed,  I  dared  to  look  about  me,  and  knew  where 
I  was  again.  Saint-Denis  was  full  of  people. 
There  was  no  danger  of  our  being  fished  out  of 
that  crowd.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  thought  of 
our  poor  shanty.  Very  likely  the  Prussians  would 
set  fire  to  it  when  they  discovered  their  comrade ; 
and  besides,  my  neighbor  Jacquot,  the  river-keeper, 
was  the  only  Frenchman  in  that  neighborhood 
now,  and  it  would  surely  make  trouble  for  him 
when  it  was  found  that  a  soldier  had  been  killed 
almost  at  his  door.  It  was  a  shabby  trick  I  had 
served  him,  running  off  in  that  fashion. 


84  Monday   Tales. 

"  I  might  at  least  have  put  my  man  where  he 
would  n't  be  found.  As  I  came  nearer  Paris,  that 
thought  pestered  me  more  and  more.  I  don't 
deny  it  made  me  uneasy  to  think  I  had  left  that 
Prussian  there  in  my  cellar.  When  I  reached  the 
rampart,  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer. 

"  '  Go  ahead,'  I  said  to  the  youngster.  '  I  have  a 
customer  I  must  see  at  Saint-Denis.' 

"  Then  I  kissed  him,  and  turned  back.  My  heart 
beat  a  little  faster  than  usual,  but  what  did  that 
matter?  I  was  relieved  to  think  the  boy  was  not 
with  me. 

"As  I  approached  Villeneuve,  night  was  coming 
on.  I  kept  my  eye  open,  you  may  be  sure,  anc? 
my  head  looked  out  for  my  heels.  The  country 
was  quiet  enough.  I  could  see  the  shanty,  just 
where  it  always  was,  there  in  the  fog.  Along  the 
quay  stretched  a  long,  black  line.  It  was  the 
Prussians,  mustering.  I  had  a  good  chance  of 
finding  the  house  empty. 

"  As  I  slipped  along  the  enclosures,  I  saw  Father 
Jacquot  in  his  yard,  spreading  his  nets.  Surely 
nothing  had  been  discovered  so  far.  I  entered 
our  place,  and  went  down  cellar,  feeling  my  way 
along.  I  found  my  Pruss,  a  was  still  under  his 
shavings.  Two  big  rats  were  tugging  away  at  his 
helmet,  and  it  gave  me  quite  a  start  to  hear  that 
chin-piece  moving.  For  a  moment  I  thought  that 
the  dead  man  had  come  to  life  again,  but  no !  his 
head  was  heavy  and  cold.  I  hid  in  a  corner,  and 
waited.  My  idea  was  to  throw  the  body  into  the 
Seine,  after  the  others  had  fallen  asleep. 


Belisaircs  Prussian.  85 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  because  that  corpse 
was  so  close  to  me,  but  the  tattoo  of  the  Prussians 
sounded  infernally  doleful  to  me  that  evening. 
Three  great  trumpet  blasts  at  once,  and  '  Ta,  ta, 
ta  —  'a  regular  frog-concert !  Our  soldiers  of  the 
line  would  never  want  to  turn  in  to  such  music  as 
that! 

"  For  five  minutes  I  heard  the  noise  of  sabres, 
rapping  upon  the  doors.  Then  some  soldiers 
entered  the  yard,  and  began  to  call,  — 

"  '  Hoffman,  Hoffman  ! ' 

"  Poor  Hoffman  lay  there  under  his  shavings, 
quiet  enough.  It  was  I  who  was  ready  to  drop  ! 
Every  moment  I  expected  to  hear  them  enter  that 
cellar.  I  had  dug  out  the  dead  man's  sword,  and 
there  I  waited,  never  daring  to  budge,  saying  all  to 
myself;  '  If  you  get  out  of  this  alive,  my  boy,  you 
owe  a  splendid  candle  to  St.  John  the  Baptist  at 
Belleville  ! ' 

"  All  the  same,  after  they  had  called  Hoffman 
often  enough,  my  tenants  decided  to  enter.  I  heard 
their  heavy  boots  tramping  over  the  stairs,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  entire  barrack  of  them  was  snor- 
ing soundly,  making  as  much  noise  as  a  country 
clock.  That  was  what  I  had  been  waiting  for  !  I 
started  out.  The  bank  was  deserted,  the  lights  in 
the  houses  were  out.  So  much  the  better.  I  went 
down  into  the  basement  again.  I  dug  out  my 
Hoffman  from  under  that  bench,  stood  him  up, 
and  hoisted  him  over  my  shoulders  as  a  porter 
might  his  pack.  Oh  !  but  he  was  heavy,  the  rascal ! 
And  what  with  fear,  and  nothing  in  my  crop  since 


$6  Monday   Tales. 

morning  I  never  thought  I  'd  have  strength  enough 
for  what  I  had  to  do.  And  then,  just  on  the  mid- 
dle of  the  quay,  I  thought  I  felt  some  one  behind 
me.  I  turned  around.  Not  a  soul !  But  the  moon 
was  rising.  I  said  to  myself,  '  Look  out !  the 
sentry  may  fire  upon  you  any  moment.' 

"  To  make  matters  worse,  the  Seine  was  low.  If 
I  threw  him  in  near  the  bank,  he'd  stay  there,  as 
if  he  'd  been  dropped  into  a  basin.  I  went  in  my- 
self. On  and  on !  But  nowhere  water  enough. 
My  strength  was  gone.  My  limbs  were  cramped. 
At  last,  when  I  thought  I  was  deep  enough  in,  I 
let  my  man  drop.  But  what  do  you  think?  He 
stuck  in  the  mud.  Could  n't  move  him.  I  shoved 
and  shoved.  Get  up,  get  up  there  !  But  luckily  an 
east  wind  sprang  up.  The  Seine  swelled,  and  I 
felt  that  the  dead  man  slipped  lightly  from  his 
mooring.  A  pleasant  voyage !  I  swallowed  a 
mouthful  of  water  and  clambered  on  to  the  bank 
again. 

"  As  I  crossed  the  Villeneuve  bridge  I  saw  a  black 
object  in  the  middle  of  the  Seine.  From  a  dis- 
tance it  looked  like  a  wherry.  It  was  my  Prussian, 
floating  towards  Argenteuil,  following  the  current 
of  the  river." 


Country- Folk  in  Paris,  87 


COUNTRY-FOLK   IN   PARIS   DURING 
THE   SIEGE. 

At  Champrosay,  these  people  were  happy  in- 
deed. Their  farmyard  was  just  under  my  windows, 
and  for  six  months  of  the  year  my  life  brought  me 
somewhat  in  contact  with  theirs.  Before  day- 
break, the  goodman  of  the  house  would  proceed 
to  the  stable,  harness  his  wagon,  and  set  out  for 
Corbeil,  where  he  sold  his  vegetables ;  a  little  later 
the  wife  rose,  dressed  the  children,  fed  the  poul- 
try, and  milked  the  cow;  all  morning  long  there 
was  such  a  clatter  of  sabots  over  the  wooden  stair- 
case !  In  the  afternoon  all  was  silent.  The  father 
was  in  the  fields,  the  children  were  at  school,  and 
the  mother  busied  herself  silently,  spreading  out 
linen  in  the  yard,  or  sat  and  sewed  before  her 
door,  watching  her  youngest.  From  time  to  time 
some  passer-by  would  stop  on  the  road,  and  then 
she  would  have  a  chat,  plying  her  needle  all  the 
while. 

But  one  day  —  it  was  towards  the  end  of  the 
month  of  August,  ever  that  memorable  month  !  — 
I  heard  the  goodwife  saying  to  one  of  her 
neighbors,  — 

"  What!  you  don't  mean  it?  The  Prussians? 
but  they  've  merely  reached  France  !  —  nothing 
more  !  " 


88  Monday   Tales. 

"  They  are  at  Chalons,  Mother  Jean !  "  I  ex- 
claimed from  my  window.  And  that  made  her 
smile  not  a  little.  In  that  small,  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  Seine-et-Oise  the  country-people  could 
not  believe  in  an  invasion  at  all. 

And  yet  every  day  wagons  were  seen  passing, 
loaded  with  luggage.  People  had  closed  their 
houses,  and  through  that  beautiful  month,  when 
the  days  are  so  long,  gardens  blossomed  in  dreary 
solitude,  and  no  one  so  much  as  opened  a  gate  to 
look  at  them.  By  degrees  my  neighbors  them- 
selves grew  alarmed.  Each  fresh  departure  from 
the  neighborhood  made  them  sad.  They  felt  they 
were  forsaken. 

One  morning  a  flourish  of  drums  was  heard 
through  the  village.  An  order  had  come  from  the 
mairie.  They  must  go  to  Paris,  sell  their  cow, 
their  fodder,  leave  nothing  behind  for  the  Prus- 
sians. And  so  the  goodman  set  out  for  Paris,  and 
it  was  a  mournful  journey  indeed.  Along  the 
paved  highway,  one  heavy  van  of  furniture  fol- 
lowed another,  a  long  procession,  and  helter-skelter 
ran  troops  of  swine  and  sheep,  dazed  and  con- 
fused, getting  between  the  wheels,  while  oxen,  tied 
together,  bellowed  after  the  wagons.  On  the  side  of 
the  road,  along  the  ditch,  poor  wretches  were  hurry- 
ing on  foot,  behind  handcarts  full  of  antiquated  furni- 
ture, faded  easy-chairs,  Empire-tables,  and  mirrors 
draped  in  chintz  ;  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  what 
distress  had  entered  these  homes,  at  having  to  re- 
move all  these  dusty  things,  all  these  relics,  and  to 
drag  load  upon  load  of  them  along  the  highways. 


Country-Folk  in  Paris.  89 

At  the  gates  of  Paris  it  was  suffocating.  There 
was  a  wait  of  two  hours.  All  this  time  the  poor 
farmer,  pushed  against  his  cow,  gazed  in  terror 
at  the  embrasures,  where  cannon  were  mounted, 
at  ditches  filled  with  water,  the  fortifications  which 
rose  before  him,  and  tall  Italian  poplars,  cut  down 
and  withering  along  the  roadside.  That  evening 
he  returned,  utterly  dismayed,  and  told  his  wife  all 
he  had  seen.  The  wife  was  terrified,  and  wanted 
to  leave  the  very  next  day.  But  something  always 
occurred  to  delay  their  departure  from  one  day  to 
another.  There  was  a  new  harvesting,  or  a  piece 
of  land  that  must  be  ploughed,  —  and  would  they 
not  have  time  to  gather  the  vintage  ?  And  deep 
down  in  their  hearts  was  a  vague  hope  that  per- 
haps the  Prussians  would  not  visit  their  part  of  the 
world. 

One  night  they  were  awakened  by  an  awful 
report!  The  Corbeil  bridge  had  been  blown  up. 
Men  were  running  about  the  country,  knocking 
from  door  to  door,  with  the  cry,  — 

"The  Uhlans!  the  Uhlans!  Flee  for  your 
lives !  " 

They  rose  as  quickly  as  they  could,  harnessed 
the  wagon,  dressed  the  children,  still  half-asleep, 
and  fled  along  the  crossroads  with  some  of  their 
neighbors.  Just  as  they  climbed  the  hill,  the  clock 
rang  three.  They  looked  back  one  last  time. 
There  was  the  watering-place,  the  church-square, 
there  were  the  roads  they  knew  so  well,  one  de- 
scending towards  the  Seine,  the  other  winding 
among  the  vineyards.     Already  everything  began 


90  Monday   Tales. 

to  look  strange  to  them,  and  in  the  gray  mist  of 
the  early  morning  the  little  deserted  village  itself, 
each  house  closed  against  its  neighbor,  seemed  to 
shiver  as  if  it  too  were  filled  with  some  terrible 
foreboding. 

And  now  they  are  in  Paris.  Two  rooms  in  the 
fourth  story,  in  a  dismal  street.  The  man  himself 
might  be  worse  off;  work  has  been  found  for  him, 
and  besides,  he  is  in  the  national  guard.  He  has 
the  life  on  the  ramparts,  the  daily  drill,  and  diverts 
himself  as  best  he  can,  that  he  may  forget  his 
empty  granary,  and  his  unsown  fields.  But  the 
woman,  less  amenable  to  the  influences  of  civiliza- 
tion, is  wretched,  weary  of  it  all,  does  not  know 
what  to  do  with  herself.  She  has  sent  the  two 
oldest  children  to  school ;  but  in  that  dreary  day- 
school,  not  brightened  by  a  single  flower-plot,  the 
little  girls  cannot  breathe  freely,  and  they  remem- 
ber their  own  pretty  convent-school  in  the  country, 
as  busy  and  full  of  life  and  happiness  as  a  beehive. 
They  remember  the  half-mile  walk  they  took 
through  the  woods  every  morning  to  reach  that 
school.  It  pains  the  mother  to  see  them  so  un- 
happy, but  she  worries  most  of  all  about  the 
youngest   child. 

At  home,  he  went  back  and  forth,  following  her 
everywhere,  through  the  yard,  through  the  house, 
passing  across  the  threshold  as  many  times  as  her- 
self, dabbling  his  tiny,  reddened  hands  in  the  wash- 
tub,  seating  himself  at  the  door  when  she  would 
rest  herself  for  a  little  while  with  her  knitting.  But 
here,  they  must  climb  four  stories,  over  a  dark  stair- 


Country- Folk  in  Paris.  91 

way  where  the  feet  slip ;  there  is  only  a  miserable 
fire  in  the  narrow  chimney-place,  and  through  the 
high  windows  is  seen  only  a  gray,  smoky  horizon, 
and  roof-tops  of  wet  slate. 

There  is,  however,  a  yard  where  he  might  play, 
but  this  the  concierge  will  not  permit.  These  con- 
cierges are  another  invention  of  city  life.  At  home, 
in  the  village,  every  man  is  his  own  master,  and 
every  one  has  at  least  a  little  corner  he  may  call  his 
own.  And  all  day  long  the  door  is  ajar ;  at  night- 
fall a  big  wooden  latch  is  enough  for  safety,  and 
soon  the  entire  household  is  wrapped  in  the  dark- 
ness of  night  in  the  country,  a  night  which  knows 
no  fear,  and  is  filled  with  refreshing  slumber.  Now 
and  then  a  dog  may  bark  at  the  moon,  but  no  one 
loses  his  rest  on  that  account.  Here  in  Paris,  in 
these  houses  of  the  poor,  the  concierge  is  the  real 
proprietor.  Her  boy  dares  not  go  downstairs 
alone,  he  is  so  afraid  of  this  ill-natured  woman, 
who  has  even  compelled  them  to  sell  their  goat, 
pretending  that  it  dragged  straw  and  peelings  over 
the  stones  of  the  yard. 

The  poor  mother  has  no  stories  left  with  which 
to  divert  the  child  when  he  is  tired.  After  their 
meal  is  over,  she  wraps  him  as  if  they  were  going 
for  a  walk  in  the  fields.  Together,  hand  in  hand, 
they  pass  through  the  streets,  along  the  boulevards. 
Startled,  jostled  against,  bewildered,  the  child 
scarcely  casts  a  glance  around  him.  He  sees 
nothing  that  interests  him  except  horses.  They 
are  the  only  objects  that  look  familiar  to  him,  and 
he    smiles   when  he  sees  one.     Neither  does  the 


92  Monday   Tales. 

mother  take  the  least  pleasure  now  in  anything  she 
sees.  She  walks  on  with  slow  steps,  dreaming  of 
her  house,  her  little  homestead.  And  as  they  pass 
by, — the  mother  with  her  open,  honest  expression, 
her  neat  attire,  her  smooth  and  shining  hair,  the 
child  with  his  chubby  figure,  his  big  galoshes, — one 
who  looks  at  them  closely  must  feel  that  they  are 
two  aliens,  exiles,  who  long,  with  all  their  hearts, 
for  the  fresh  air  and  the  solitude  of  their  country 
lanes. 


At  the  Outposts.  93 


AT  THE  OUTPOSTS. 
MEMORIES   OF  THE   SIEGE. 

The  following  notes  were  written  from  day  to 
day,  while  passing  from  one  outpost  to  another. 
In  offering  them,  I  am  merely  detaching  a  leaf 
from  my  note-book,  before  the  Siege  of  Paris  has 
become  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  is  only  a  sketch, 
desultory  and  abrupt,  dashed  off  upon  my  knee 
from  time  to  time,  and  with  no  more  smoothness 
than  the  splinter  of  a  shell.  But  I  give  these  notes 
just  as  they  are,  without  altering  one  word,  without 
even  rereading  them  for  myself,  lest  in  so  doing  I 
might  attempt  to  lend  interest  to  them  by  adding 
fiction  to  fact,  and  so  mar  the  whole. 


AT  LA  CORNEUVE,  A  MORNING  IN  DECEMBER. 

A  WHITE,  wintry  plain,  rugged  and  chalky,  across 
which  every  sound  echoes.  Along  the  frozen  mud 
of  the  road  the  infantry  of  the  line  are  advancing, 
pell-mell,  with  the  artillery.  A  slow  and  dreary 
march.  There  will  be  fighting  soon.  The  men 
stumble  again  and  again,  walk  with  lowered  heads, 
shivering  with  the  cold,  their  guns  strapped,  their 


94  Monday   Tales. 

hands  concealed  within  their  blankets,  as  in  a  muff. 
From  time  to  time  is  heard  the  cry  of  "  Halt !  " 

The  frightened  horses  neigh.  The  ammunition 
wagons  rumble,  and  artillery-men,  raising  them- 
selves in  the  saddle,  anxiously  scan  the  great  white 
wall  of  Bourget. 

"  Can  you  see  them?  "  ask  the  soldiers,  striking 
their  feet  together  to  warm  them.  And  then 
"  Forward  march !  "  and  that  human  wave,  driven 
back  for  a  moment,  moves  onward  in  silence,  never 
quickening  its  pace. 

On  the  horizon,  in  front  of  the  fort  of  Auber- 
villiers,  and  sharply  outlined  against  the  cold  sky  in 
which  the  sun  is  rising  like  a  leaden  disc,  a  little 
group  is  seen.  It  is  the  governor  and  his  staff; 
against  the  gray  sky  they  stand  in  strong  relief, 
like  Japanese  figures  upon  a  background  of  mother- 
of-pearl.  In  nearer  view,  stationed  along  the  road 
like  a  flock  of  crows,  black-robed  figures  are  seen, 
ministering  brothers  of  charity,  ready  for  duty  at 
the  ambulances.  Standing  there,  their  hands 
crossed  beneath  their  capes  as  they  watch  the  long 
line  moving  on  to  become  food  for  the  cannon, 
devotion,  humility,  and  sorrow  speak  from  their 
eyes. 

Same  day.  —  Villages  deserted,  abandoned 
houses  wide  open,  roofs  demolished,  windows 
with  their  weatherboards  gone,  staring  at  you  like 
the  eyes  of  a  corpse. 

Now  and  then,  in  one  of  these  ruins  where  every 
sound  reverberates,  something  is  heard  stirring,  the 
sound  of  footsteps  perhaps,  or  a  door  rattling  on 


At  the  Outposts.  95 

its  hinges ;  and  after  you  have  passed,  a  soM;er  of 
the  line  appears  on  the  threshold,  hollow-eyed- 
suspicious,  —  some  marauder  perhaps,  who  is  mak- 
ing a  search,  or  some  deserter  seeking  a  hiding 
place.  Upon  entering  one  of  these  country-housesr 
towards  noon,  it  appears  to  be  empty  and  bare- 
A  vulture's  claws  could  not  scrape  it  cleaner !  Or* 
the  lower  floor  the  big  kitchen,  windowless,  door- 
less,  opens  upon  the  back  yard,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  yard  is  a  green  hedge ;  behind  the  hedge  the 
open  country  is  seen.  At  one  end  there  is  a  little 
spiral  stairway  of  stone.  I  seat  myself  upon  one 
of  its  steps,  and  remain  there  for  some  time.  How 
good  a  gift  this  sunshine,  this  deep  calm  every- 
where !  Two  or  three  big  flies  of  last  summer, 
revived  by  the  sunlight,  buzz  about  the  rafters  of 
the  ceiling.  At  the  fireplace,  a  few  traces  of  a  fire 
remain,  and  the  hearthstone  is  reddened  with  con- 
gealed blood.  This  blood-stained  hearth,  those 
cinders  still  warm,  tell  the  mournful  story  of  the 
preceding  night. 


ALONG   THE   MARNE. 

December^. — Went  out  through  the  Porte  de 
Montreuil.  A  heavy  sky,  piercing  wind,  —  fog 
everywhere. 

No  one  to  be  seen  in  Montreuil.  Doors  and 
windows  closed.  Behind  their  enclosure,  a  flock 
of  geese  were  cackling.  Plainly,  the  master  him- 
self is  still  here,  but  in  hiding.     A  little  further  on, 


96  Monday  Tales. 

a  cabaret,  open.  It  is  warm  within,  and  there  is  a 
roaring  fire.  Three  provincials,  mobiles,  it  ap- 
pears, are  seated  as  close  to  it  as  possible,  break- 
fasting. They  speak  not  a  word ;  their  eyes  are 
swollen,  their  faces  inflamed;  they  rest  their 
elbows  upon  the  table,  and  the  poor  moblots 
almost  fall  asleep  as  they  eat. 

Left  Montreuil,  and  crossed  the  Bois  de  Vin- 
cennes,  blue  with  the  dense  smoke  of  bivouac  fires. 
Ducrot's  army  is  there.  The  men  are  cutting  trees 
to  warm  themselves.  It  is  a  shame  to  see  poplars 
and  birches  and  young  ash-trees  flying  into  the 
air,  root  and  all,  and  trailing  their  delicate  golden 
foliage  along  the  road. 

At  Nogent,  more  soldiers,  —  artillery-men  in 
great  cloaks,  Norman  mobiles,  with  plump  bodies, 
rounded  as  apples,  little  Zouaves,  well-muffled,  but 
agile  enough,  soldiers  of  the  line,  bent  almost 
double,  their  blue  handkerchiefs  tied  about  their 
ears,  beneath  their  kepis.  Loungers  swarm  the 
streets,  people  jostle  each  other  at  the  doorways 
of  the  two  grocery-shops  still  open.  One  is 
reminded  of  some  tiny  Algerian  village. 

At  last  the  open  country.  A  long,  deserted 
road  descending  towards  the  Marne.  A  beautiful 
sky,  pearly  in  tint,  trees  whose  bare  boughs  shiver 
in  the  mist ;  below,  the  great  viaduct  of  the  railway, 
presenting  a  sinister  appearance,  like  a  huge  jaw 
in  which  a  tooth  is  gone  here  and  there,  for  the 
arches  of  the  viaduct  have  been  destroyed  in 
places. 

Passing   through   Le    Perreux,    ruined    gardens 


At  the  Outposts.  97 

everywhere,  houses  devastated  and  dreary ;  in  one 
of  those  tiny  villas  bordering  the  roadside,  I  saw 
behind  the  gate  three  great  white  chrysanthemums, 
full-blown,  which  had  escaped  the  general  massacre. 
I  pushed  open  the  gate  and  entered,  but  they  were 
so  beautiful  that  I  could  not  bear  to  pluck  them. 

Took  a  cross-road,  and  descended  towards  the 
Marne.  When  I  reached  the  riverside,  the  sun 
came  out,  and  shone  in  full  glory  upon  the  river. 
It  was  a  lovely  sight.  Just  across  the  river  was 
Petit-Bry,  where  there  had  been  so  much  fighting 
the  day  before;  on  the  hillside,  surrounded  by 
vineyards,  its  little  white  houses  nestle  peacefully, 
row  upon  row.  Near  me,  on  the  river,  a  boat 
among  the  reeds.  A  group  of  men  are  talking 
upon  the  bank,  while  they  watch  the  opposite 
slope.  They  are  scouts  who  are  going  to  Petit- 
Bry  to  discover  whether  the  Saxons  have  returned. 
I  cross  with  them.  As  we  are  rowed  over  the 
stream,  one  of  the  scouts,  sitting  behind  me,  says 
to  me  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  If  you  wish  chassepots  —  the  mairie  is  full  of 
them.  They  have  left  a  colonel  of  the  line  there 
too,  a  big,  fair-haired  fellow,  with  a  skin  as  white  as 
a  woman's ;  and  he  had  on  yellow  boots  that  were 
quite  new  1  " 

The  boots  of  the  dead  soldier  had  evidently 
impressed  him  more  than  anything  else.  He  was 
constantly  referring  to  them. 

"  Vingt  dieux !  but  that  was  a  fine  pair  of 
boots  !  "  and  his  eyes  sparkled  as  he  spoke. 

As  we  entered  Petit-Bry,  a  sailor  shod  with 
7 


98  Monday  Tales. 

Spanish  sandals  and  carrying  four  or  five  chasse- 
pots,  came  rolling  out  of  an  alley  and  approached 
us  on  the  run. 

"  Keep  your  eyes  open !  there  are  the  Prus- 
sians !  "  he  said. 

We  crouched  behind  a  little  wall  and  watched. 
Above  us,  and  higher  than  the  vineyards  them- 
selves, a  horseman  was  seen,  quite  a  melodramatic 
figure,  outlined  against  the  horizon.  He  was  lean- 
ing forward  in  the  saddle,  his  helmet  upon  his 
head,  his  carbine  in  his  hand.  Then  other  horse- 
men appeared,  and  foot-soldiers  crouched  in  various 
places  among  the  vines. 

One  of  them,  quite  near  us,  had  taken  position 
behind  a  tree,  and  never  once  moved.  He  was  a 
huge  fellow,  in  a  long  brown  coat,  and  a  colored 
handkerchief  was  tied  about  his  head.  From  the 
spot  where  we  stood  he  would  have  made  a  splendid 
target,  but  what  good  would  that  have  done  ?  The 
scouts  knew  what  they  were  about.  And  so  we 
hastily  entered  the  boat.  The  boatman  began  to 
swear.  We  recrossed  the  Marne  without  mishap. 
But  scarcely  had  we  landed  when  we  heard  muffled 
voices  calling  from  the  opposite  bank,  — 

"  Holloa,  holloa  there  !  the  boat !  " 

It  was  my  acquaintance  who  had  taken  such  a 
fancy  to  the  boots  a  while  before ;  with  three  or 
four  of  his  companions,  he  had  attempted  to  reach 
the  mairie,  and  was  obliged  to  return  precipitately. 
Unfortunately,  there  was  no  one  to  return  for  him 
and  his  companions.  Our  boatman  had  disap- 
peared. 


At  the  Outposts.  99 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  row,"  says  to  me,  pite- 
ously  enough,  the  sergeant  of  the  scouts,  who  is 
crouching  at  my  side  in  a  hole  at  the  water's  edge. 
All  this  time  the  others  are  growing  impatient. 

"  Come,  come !  "  they  call ;  some  one  must  get 
them.  Not  an  agreeable  task.  The  Marne  is 
rough  and  swollen.  I  pull  across  with  all  my 
might,  and  every  moment  I  feel,  back  of  me,  that 
Saxon  above,  watching  me,  motionless,  from  behind 
his  tree. 

In  boarding  the  boat,  one  of  the  scouts  jumps 
in  so  hastily  that  it  is  filled  with  water.  It  becomes 
impossible  to  take  on  all  the  men  without  running 
the  risk  of  sinking  the  boat.  The  bravest  one 
remains  to  wait  upon  the  bank.  He  is  a  corporal 
of  the  franc-tireurs,  a  handsome  boy  in  blue,  a  little 
bird  worked  upon  the  front  of  his  cap.  I  would 
have  returned  for  him  gladly,  but  just  then  a  fusil- 
lade from  one  bank  to  another  began.  He  waited 
a  few  moments  without  a  word ;  then  he  took  him- 
self off  towards  Champigny,  keeping  close  to  the 
walls.     I  do  not  know  what  became  of  him. 

Same  day.  —  It  is  the  same  with  things  as  with 
persons;  a  union  of  the  grotesque  with  the 
dramatic  adds  peculiar  intensity  to  the  thrill  of 
horror  we  experience.  To  see  great  suffering 
stamped  upon  a  face  whose  outline  at  other  times 
would  cause  a  smile,  does  not  this  move  you  more 
profoundly  than  it  would  to  read  the  same  story 
elsewhere?  Picture  to  yourself  a  bourgeois  of 
Daumier's  in  the  last  agonies  of  death,  or  weeping 
his   heart   out    beside    the    dead    body   of  a   son 


lOO  Monday   Talcs. 

brought  home  to  him  slain.  Is  there  not  peculiar 
poignancy  in  that  anguish?  Ah,  well!  to  look  at 
all  those  bourgeois  villas  along  the  Marne,  toy- 
gingerbread  cottages,  gaudy  caricatures  in  rose- 
pink,  apple-green,  canary-yellow,  and  mediaeval 
turrets  roofed  with  zinc,  kiosks  of  imitation  brick, 
rococo  gardens,  in  the  centre  of  each  a  white  metal 
ball,  —  when  I  see  them  now,  blackened  with  the 
smoke  of  battle,  their  roofs  splintered  with  shells, 
their  weather-vanes  broken,  their  walls  dented, 
blood  and  straw  everywhere,  there  is  something 
horrible  in  the  sight. 

The  house  which  I  entered  was  a  fair  type  of 
them  all.  I  ascended  to  the  first  story  and  entered 
the  little  parlor,  done  in  red  and  gold.  The  paper- 
hangers  had  not  finished  their  work  upon  it.  Rolls 
of  paper  and  gilded  mouldings  were  lying  about, 
but  there  was  not  a  trace  of  furniture.  Bits  of 
broken  bottles  were  scattered  over  the  floor,  and 
in  a  corner,  upon  a  straw  mattress,  a  man  was 
sleeping  in  his  blouse.  Moreover,  an  indescribable 
odor  of  wine,  powder,  candles,  and  musty  straw; 
which  of  these  the  strongest,  it  would  be  hard 
to  say.  To  warm  myself,  I  toss  the  leg  of  a  centre- 
table  into  the  fireplace.  Such  an  idiotic  fireplace, 
stuccoed  in  pink,  and  resembling  some  marvel  of 
the  confectioner's  art ! 

While  I  look  at  it,  for  a  moment  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  merely  spending  a  Sunday  afternoon 
in  the  country  in  some  prosperous  little  bour- 
geois establishment.  Is  not  some  one  playing 
backgammon    behind    me    there,    in    the   parlor? 


At  the  Outposts.  xoi 

No !  those  are  riflemen,  loading  and  discharging 
their  chassepots.  Except'-  for1  "the  frequertf  re- 
ports, one  might  mistake  the  sound  for  the  tossing 
of  dice. 

Upon  each  report,  there  is  a  reply  from  the 
opposite  bank.  The  sound  borne  across  the  water 
ricochets  back  and  forth,  and  echoes  ceaselessly 
among  the  hills. 

Through  the  loopholes  in  the  parlor,  the  gleam 
of  the  Marne  may  be  seen,  its  bank  bathed  in  sun- 
light, and  between  the  poles  of  the  vineyards,  like 
great  greyhounds,  move  the  Prussians. 


SOUVENIR  OF   FORT   MONTROUGE. 

High  above,  upon  the  bastion  of  the  fort,  in  the 
embrasure  formed  by  sandbags,  long  marine  guns 
raise  themselves  proudly,  almost  erect  in  their  car- 
riages, pointing  towards  Chatillon.  Thus  aimed, 
with  their  mouths  in  the  air,  their  handles  protrud- 
ing like  ears  on  each  side,  they  make  one  think  of 
immense  hunting-dogs  baying  at  the  moon,  bel- 
lowing in  the  face  of  death.  A  little  lower,  upon  a 
terreplein,  the  sailors  are  amusing  themselves,  as  if 
aboard  ship,  by  making  an  English  garden  in  mini- 
ature. There  is  a  bench,  an  arbor,  lawns,  and 
rockeries,  and  even  a  banana-tree,  not  a  very  tall 
one,  to  be  sure,  scarcely  higher  than  a  hyacinth ; 
but  all  the  same  it  is  a  welcome  sight,  and  its  small 
green  tuft,  seen  in  the  midst  of  sandbags  and  piles 
of  shells,  refreshes  the  eye. 


IQ2  Mpnday   Talcs. 

.  OIU  A^t:^  little  garden  at  Fort  MontrougeJ 
.Wcuid  X  might  ,-sco;  it  again,  surrounded  by  a  pal- 
ing, and  in  that  garden  a  memorial  stone,  on  which 
were  inscribed  the  names  of  Carves,  Desprez, 
Saisset,  and  all  those  brave  sailors  who  fell  at  their 
post  of  honor  on  yonder  bastion. 


AT   LA  FOUILLEUSE. 

The  morning  of  the  twentieth  of  January.  A 
pleasant  morning,  mild  and  cloudy.  Great  stretches 
of  plough-land,  undulating  at  a  distance,  like  the 
sea.  On  the  left,  high  sand-hills,  which  serve  as 
a  buttress  for  Mont  Valerien.  On  the  right, 
Gibet  Mill,  a  little  stone  mill,  its  sails  broken  and 
a  battery  upon  its  platform. 

Walked  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  beside  the  long 
trench  leading  to  the  mill.  Over  it  rested  a  light 
veil,  like  a  river  mist.  It  was  smoke  from  the  biv- 
ouac fires.  Soldiers  were  squatting  about,  making 
coffee.  The  smoke  of  the  green  wood  they  were 
inhaling  blinded  and  choked  them.  From  one  end 
to  the  other  of  the  trench,  a  prolonged  cough  was 
heard.  La  Fouilleuse,  —  a  farm,  bordered  by  small 
timber.  Arrived  there  just  in  time  to  see  the  last 
of  our  lines  beating  a  retreat.  It  was  the  Third 
Regiment  of  Paris  mobiles.  It  marched  in  good 
order,  none  missing,  a  commander  at  its  head. 
After  the  incomprehensible  confusion  and  disorder 
I  had  seen  since  yesterday  evening,  this  sight  reas- 
sured me  a  little.     After  the  men,  came  two  horse- 


At  the  Outposts.  103 

men,  —  a  general  and  his  aide-de-camp.  They 
were  quite  near  me  as  they  passed.  The  horses 
were  trotting  leisurely,  the  two  men  were  talking  to 
each  other,  and  loudly  enough  to  be  heard.  The 
aide-de-camp  said,  in  a  fresh  young  voice,  a  trifle 
obsequious,  — 

"  Yes,  general !  —  oh,  no  !  general  —  certainly, 
my  general." 

And  the  general,  in  mild,  but  heart-broken 
tones, — 

"What!  he  is  slain?  Oh!  the  poor  boy,  the 
poor   boy !  " 

Then  the  voices  were  silent,  and  nothing  was 
heard  but  the  tramping  of  horses  in  the  soft  earth. 

For  a  moment  I  remained  there  alone,  looking 
at  that  vast,  melancholy  landscape.  One  was  re- 
minded somewhat  of  the  plains  of  Ch&if  or  of 
Mitidja.  Lines  of  ambulance  men  in  gray  blouses 
were  climbing  a  hollowed  road.  Seeing  their  white 
banner,  with  its  red  cross,  one  might  have  believed 
he  was  in  Palestine,  at  the  time  of  the  Crusades. 


104  Monday   Tales. 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  INSURRECTION. 

IN   THE  MARAIS. 

In  the  dampness  and  provincial  gloom  of  these 
long,  tortuous  streets,  through  which  are  wafted 
odors  of  drugs  and  logwood,  in  the  midst  of 
these  ancient  h6tels  of  the  time  of  Henry  II.,  of 
Louis  XIII.,  which  modern  industry  has  caricatured 
by  converting  them  into  establishments  for  the 
manufacture  of  seltzer-water,  bronzes,  and  chemical 
products,  these  mouldy  gardens  filled  with  packing- 
cases,  these  courts  of  honor,  over  which  heavy 
trucks  are  rumbling,  these  swelling  balconies,  tall 
windows,  worm-eaten  gables,  as  blackened  with 
smoke  as  church  extinguishers,  —  in  this  quarter, 
the  insurrection,  especially  during  those  first  days, 
has  a  unique  physiognomy,  all  its  own,  an  air  of 
primitive  simplicity.  ■  Rough  attempts  at  barri- 
cading every  street-corner,  but  not  a  soul  to 
guard  the  barricade.  No  cannons,  no  mitrailleuses. 
Heaps  of  stones  piled  up  without  method  or  intelli- 
gence, simply  for  the  delight  of  obstructing  a 
passage,  leaving  big  puddles  of  water  for  swarms 
of  gamins  to  paddle  in,  sailing  flotillas  of  paper 
boats.  Every  shop  is  open,  and  the  shop-keepers 
are  standing  at  their  doors,  laughing  and  discussing 
politics,  from  one  sidewalk  to  another.     It  is  not 


Glimpses  of  the  Insurrection.         105 

such  people  as  these  who  are  raising  riots,  but 
it  is  plainly  to  be  seen  that  they  regard  the 
work  of  the  insurgents  well-pleased,  as  though, 
in  disturbing  the  stones  of  this  peaceful  neigh- 
borhood, the  revolt  had  aroused  the  very  soul 
of  the  ancient  bourgeois  of  Paris  in  all  its  riotous 
levity. 

What  might  have  been  called,  in  other  days, 
the  spirit  of  the  Fronde,  animates  the  Marais  at 
this  hour.  Upon  the  frontons  of  these  proud 
houses,  grotesque  faces  of  sculptured  stone,  gri- 
mace joyously,  as  if  to  say,  "  We  have  seen  all  this 
before  !  "  And  my  fancy  runs  away  with  me  and 
in  spite  of  myself  clothes  in  flowered  coats,  knee- 
breeches  and  big  cocked  hats  this  little  world  of 
bustling  druggists,  gilders,  and  grocers,  who  with 
the  air  of  mere  spectators  watch  the  tearing  up  of 
their  streets,  their  sides  shaking  with  laughter,  and 
are  proud  to  think  they  have  a  barricade  close  to 
their  very  shops. 

Now  and  then,  at  the  end  of  a  long,  dark  alley,  I 
I  can  see  bayonets  gleaming  upon  the  Place  de 
Greve.  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  ancient  town-hall, 
gilded  by  the  sun.  In  this  blaze  of  light,  horsemen 
are  seen  galloping  by,  in  long  gray  cloaks,  with 
floating  plumes. 

A  crowd  follows  them,  shouting  and  waving  their 
hats.  Is  it  Mademoiselle  Montpensier  or  General 
Cremer?  Epochs  begin  to  grow  confused  in  my 
brain.  In  the  sunlight,  at  a  distance,  a  red-shirted 
Garibaldian  orderly  rushes  by  at  full  speed,  and  I 
can  almost  fancy  that  I  see  the  red  cloak  of  the 


106  Monday   Tales. 

Cardinal  de  Retz.  I  can  scarcely  tell  whether  that 
shrewdest  of  shrewd  schemers,  of  whom  all  these 
groups  of  people  are  talking,  is  M.  Thiers  or 
Mazarin.  I  seem  to  be  in  a  past  three  hundred 
years  removed  from  to-day. 


AT  MONTMARTRE. 

As  I  was  climbing  the  Rue  Lepic  the  other 
morning,  I  saw  in  a  cobbler's  shop  an  officer  of 
the  national  guard,  with  sabre  at  his  side,  and  lace 
up  to  the  elbow.  He  was  tapping  a  pair  of  boots, 
protected  by  his  leather  apron  that  he  need  not 
soil  his  coat.  One  glance  at  that  shop-window  was 
enough  to  suggest  the  whole  of  insurgent  Mont- 
martre. 

Imagine  an  immense  village,  armed  to  the  teeth, 
mitrailleuses  in  front  of  the  watering-trough,  the 
church-square  bristling  with  bayonets,  a  barricade 
in  front  of  the  schoolhouse,  milk-cans  and  canister 
side  by  side ;  every  house  is  converted  into  a  bar- 
rack, at  every  window  soldiers'  gaiters  are  hanging 
to  dry,  kepis  lean  forward,  waiting  to  hear  the  call ; 
in  the  little  shops  where  old  clothes  are  sold,  a  vig- 
orous pounding  of  gun-butts  is  heard,  and  from 
the  foot  of  the  hill  to  the  top,  a  clatter  of  platters 
and  sabres  and  canteens.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these 
things,  Montmartre  does  not  look  as  fierce  as  when 
it  marched  upon  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  rifles 
shouldered,  and  chin-straps  under  the  chins,  mark- 
ing time  ferociously,  and  seeming  to  say,  "  Our 


Glimpses  of  the  Insurrection.        107 

best  behavior  now !  the  Reaction  is  watching  us." 
Here  the  insurgents  are  at  home,  and  in  spite  of 
cannon  and  barricades,  there  is  little  of  a  formal  or 
formidable  nature  in  this  revolt.  It  seemed  rather 
a  family  affair. 

A  painful  sight  it  was,  however,  to  see  the  swarms 
of  red  trousers,  deserters  of  all  sorts  —  Zouaves, 
HgnardSy  mobiles  —  obstructing  the  square  in  front 
of  the  mairie,  lying  about  on  the  benches,  sprawling 
along  the  sidewalks,  drunken,  filthy,  tattered,  and 
unshaven  for  a  week.  As  I  was  passing,  one  of 
these  luckless  rascals,  who  had  climbed  up  into 
a  tree,  began  to  harangue  the  crowd.  His  tongue 
did  not  move  very  freely,  and  laughter  and  hoot- 
ings  greeted  his  efforts.  In  another  part  of  the 
Place,  a  battalion  was  in  motion,  on  its  way  up  to 
the  ramparts. 

"  Forward !  "  cried  the  officers,  waving  their 
swords.  The  drums  beat  the  charge,  and  the 
worthy  militiamen,  with  ardent  zeal,  rushed  to  the 
assault  of  a  long,  deserted  street,  at  the  end  of 
which  could  be  seen  a  few  terrified,  cackling  hens, 
—  nothing  more  ! 

ShX.  the  top  of  the  hill  a  vista  of  green  gardens 
and  yellow  roads ;  rising  in  their  midst  La  Galette 
mill,  transformed  into  a  military  post,  with  rows  of 
tents,  the  smoke  of  tiny  bivouac-fires,  and,  outlined 
against  this  background,  figures  of  the  national 
guard  are  seen.  Every  object  as  sharply  defined 
as  if  sighted  from  the  end  of  a  spyglass,  between 
the  sky,  black  and  full  of  rain,  and  the  shining 
ochre  of  the  hill.^ 


io8  Monday   Tales, 


AT   THE   FAUBOURG   SAINT-ANTOINE. 

A  NIGHT  in  January,  during  the  Siege  of  Paris, 
I  stood  upon  the  Place  de  Nanterre,  in  the  midst 
of  a  battalion  of  Franc-tireurs :  The  enemy  had 
just  attacked  our  outposts,  and  men  hastily  arming 
to  go  to  the  relief  of  their  comrades  were  forming, 
groping  their  way  as  best  they  could  through  the 
wind  and  snow;  we  saw  a  patrol  emerge  from  a 
street-corner,  preceded  by  a  lantern. 

"  Halt  !  who  goes  there?" 

"  Mobiles  of  '48,"  replied  the  tremulous  voice  of 
an  old  man.  They  were  tiny  fellows  in  short  cloaks, 
kepis  askew,  and  something  almost  infantile  in  their 
appearance.  At  a  little  distance  they  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  children  of  the  regiment,  but 
when  the  sergeant  went  closer  to  see  who  they 
were,  the  light  of  our  lanterns  revealed  a  tiny  old 
man,  wrinkled,  faded,  with  blinking  eyes  and  a 
snow-white  chin-beard.  This  child  of  the  regiment 
was  at  least  a  hundred  years  old.  His  companions 
were  scarcely  younger.  And  then  that  Parisian 
accent  and  swashbuckler  air  of  these  venerable 
old  gamins ! 

Arrived  the  day  before  at  the  outposts,  the  un- 
happy mobiles  had  lost  their  way  on  their  first 
patrol.  They  were  quickly  despatched  upon  their 
business. 

"  Make  haste,  comrades !  the  Prussians  are  at- 
tacking us." 


Glimpses  of  the  Insurrection.        iog 

"  Ah  !  ah  !  the  Prussians  are  attacking  us  !  "  re- 
peated the  poor  old  creatures,  quite  dismayed ;  and 
turning  upon  their  heels,  they  were  soon  lost  in 
the  night,  their  lantern  dancing  and  flickering 
under  the  fusillade. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  fantastic  impression  these 
tiny  gnomes  produced  upon  me.  They  looked  so 
aged,  so  bewildered,  so  weary !  They  seemed  to 
have  come  from  some  great  distance,  —  and  I 
could  almost  imagine  this  was  a  phantom-patrol, 
wandering  through  the  land  since  1848,  a  patrol 
that  had  lost  its  way  twenty-three  years  ago,  and 
in  search  of  it  ever  since. 

The  insurgents  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine 
recalled  this  apparition  to  me.  I  found  these 
ancients  of  '48  forever  going  astray  —  a  little  older 
now  than  they  were  then,  but  as  incorrigible  as 
ever,  hoary-haired  rioters  playing  at  their  old 
game  of  civil  war  with  a  classic  barricade  two  or 
three  stories  high,  a  red  flag  floating  from  its  sum- 
mit, melodramatic  attitudes  at  the  cannon's  breech, 
sleeves  rolled  up,  gruff  voices  exclaiming,  — 

"  Keep  on  the  move,  citizens !  "  and  then  their 
bayonets  were  pointed. 

All  is  bustle  and  commotion  upon  this  great 
Babel-like  faubourg.  From  the  Place  du  Trone 
to  the  Bastille,  surprises,  scuffles,  searches,  and 
arrests,  open-air  meetings,  pilgrimages  to  the 
Column ;  1  tipsy  patrollers  have  forgotten  the  pass- 
word ;  chassepots  go  off  of  themselves ;  ribalds 
are  led  to  the    comite"  of  the  Rue    Basfroid ;    the 

1  La  Colonne  de  Juillet,  on  the  Place  de  la  Bastille.  —  Tr. 


HO  Monday   Tales. 

drum  beats  to  arms ;  the  general  and  the  tocsin  are 
heard.  Oh  !  that  tocsin.  With  what  delight  these 
madmen  set  their  bells  a-ringing.  As  soon  as 
twilight  sets  in,  in  every  belfry  a  mad  dance  begins, 
incessant  as  the  tinkling  of  a  jester's  bells  !  Hark ! 
the  drunken  tocsin,  fantastic,  uncertain,  panting  in 
broken  tones,  stammering  and  hiccoughing.  And 
the  earnest  tocsin  !  ringing  out  fiercely  with  all  its 
might,  peal  upon  peal,  till  the  bell-rope  breaks ! 
And  then  the  muffled  tocsin,  lifeless  and  dead,  its 
sleepy  notes  falling  as  heavily  upon  the  ear  as  the 
curfew's  toll. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  tumult  of  distracted  bells 
and  brains,  I  am  impressed  by  the  tranquillity  of 
the  Rue  Lappe  and  the  alleys  and  passages  which 
radiate  from  it.  The  neighborhood  is  a  species  of 
Auvergnese  ghetto  where  the  children  of  Cantal 
traffic  peacefully  their  old  iron,  as  little  concerned 
with  thoughts  of  an  insurrection  as  though  it  were 
located  a  thousand  leagues  away.  As  I  pass,  I  note 
that  all  these  brave  R&nonencques  are  very  busy 
in  their  dark  shops.  The  women  squat  upon  the 
stone  step  in  front  of  their  doorways,  and  knit  and 
jabber  in  broken  French,  while  their  little  ones 
tumble  about  in  the  passage,  their  frizzly  locks  full 
of  iron-dust. 


The  Ferry.  Ill 


THE   FERRY. 

BEFORE  the  war,  a  fine  suspension-bridge  crossed 
the  river  at  this  point,  with  two  lofty  piers  of  white 
stone,  and  its  tarred  cordage,  spanning  the  horizon 
from  one  river-bank  to  the  other,  presented  that 
aerial  appearance  which  adds  such  beauty  to  vessels 
or  balloons.  Beneath  the  great  middle  arches  of 
the  bridge,  a  line  of  boats  passed  twice  a  day,  in 
clouds  of  smoke,  without  having  to  lower  a  smoke- 
stack. On  either  bank,  washerwomen's  boats 
and  beaters  were  seen,  and  small  fishing-boats 
anchored  to  rings. 

A  road  shaded  with  poplars  led  to  the  bridge, 
stretching  from  meadow  to  meadow,  like  a  great 
green  curtain,  fluttering  with  every  breeze  that 
blew  from  the  river.     It  was  a  charming  sight. 

But  this  year  all  is  changed.  The  poplars  are 
still  standing,  but  they  no  longer  lead  to  the  bridge, 
for  the  bridge  is  gone.  The  two  piers  have  been 
blown  up,  scattering  fragments  of  stone  in  all  di- 
rections. The  stones  are  lying  there  still.  The 
little  white  toll-house,  half  destroyed  by  the  ex- 
plosion, wears  the  appearance  of  a  new  ruin,  a 
"barricade,  or  some  pile  of  rubbish.  Cordage  and 
iron  wires  are  drenched  with  water.  The  platform 
of  the  bridge,  sunk  in  the   sand,  water  all  about  it, 


H2  Monday  Tales. 

looks  like  a  huge  wreck,  surmounted  by  a  red  flag 
to  warn  mariners;  all  that  the  Seine  has  to  offer, 
cut  grass  and  mouldy  planks,  is  caught  here,  as  if 
by  a  dam,  eddying  and  whirling.  There  is  a  rent 
in  the  landscape,  an  open  wound  that  tells  of  dis- 
aster. And  to  make  the  sight  still  sadder,  the 
poplars  along  the  walk  leading  to  the  bridge  have 
been  shorn  of  their  leafage.  All  those  beautiful 
tufted  poplars  are  literally  devoured  by  larvae,  for 
trees  themselves  are  subject  to  invasion.  There  is 
not  a  single  shoot  to  be  seen  on  the  branches,  the 
trees  are  cut,  their  foliage  thinned.  And  through 
the  great  avenue,  useless  and  deserted  now,  big 
white  butterflies  float  lazily. 

While  waiting  for  the  bridge  to  be  rebuilt,  a 
ferry  has  been  established  near-by.  It  is  an  im- 
mense raft,  and  upon  it  are  ferried  across  horses 
and  carriages,  plough-horses  and  ploughs,  and  cows 
rolling  their  placid  eyes  at  sight  of  the  moving 
waters.  Beasts  and  equipages  are  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  raft;  on  the  sides,  passengers  of 
various  sorts,  country  people,  children  going  to 
school  in  the  village,  Parisians  off  for  a  holiday. 
Ribbons  and  veils  flutter  beside  horses'  tethers. 
The  little  company  upon  the  raft  might  have  been 
dropped  from  some  wreck.  The  boat  advances 
slowly. 

The  passage  across  the  Seine  seems  longer  than 
ever  now,  the  river  wider  than  before,  and  with  the 
ruins  of  that  broken  bridge  in  the  foreground,  the* 
horizon  bounding  those  banks,  each  almost  a 
stranger  to  the  other,  expands  with  a  sad  solemnity. 


The  Ferry.  113 

That  morning  I  reached  the  ferry  very  early. 
As  yet  there  was  no  one  on  the  bank.  The  ferry- 
man's little  house,  an  old  van,  standing  in  the 
moist  sand,  was  closed.  It  was  dripping  from  the 
fog.     Children  were  coughing  inside. 

"  Hallo  !  —  Eugene  !  " 

"  Coming,  coming !  "  called  the  ferryman ;  and  he 
came,  dragging  himself  along.  He  was  an  excel- 
lent ferryman,  still  young,  but  he  had  served  in  the 
artillery  during  the  last  war,  and  he  came  out  of  it 
crippled  with  rheumatism,  the  splinter  of  a  shell  in 
his  leg,  his  face  all  scarred.  The  brave  fellow 
smiled  when  he  saw  me. 

"We  shall  have  plenty  of  room  this  morning, 
sir !  " 

And  indeed  I  was  the  only  one  on  the  ferry, 
but  before  he  had  unfastened  his  rope  more  pas- 
sengers arrived.  First  came  a  stout,  bright-eyed 
farmer's  wife,  going  to  market  at  Corbeil,  with  a 
big  basket  upon  each  arm,  which  straightened  her 
rustic  figure,  and  helped  her  to  walk  firmly  and 
erectly.  Behind  her,  in  the  hollow  road,  came 
others  whose  figures  were  seen  indistinctly  through 
the  mist,  though  their  voices  could  be  heard.  One 
of  these  voices  was  a  woman's,  gentle  and  tearful. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Chachignot,  I  beseech  you,  do 
not  press  us  so  hard.  You  know  he  has  work  now. 
Only  give  him  time  enough  to  pay  you.  That  is 
all  he  asks." 

"  I  have  given  him  time  enough ;   I  have  given 
him  altogether  too  long,"  answered  the  voice  of  an 
old  peasant.     The  words  were  mumbled  through 
8 


H4  Monday   Tctles. 

his  toothless  jaws ;  the  tone  of  the  voice  was  cruel. 
"The  sheriff  must  tend  to  this  matter  now.  He 
may  do  as  he  chooses.     Hallo  !  —  Eugene  !  " 

"  'T  is  that  scoundrel,  Chachignot,"  the  ferry- 
man whispered  to  me.     "  Here  !  here  !  " 

At  that  moment  I  saw  arrive  upon  the  bank  a 
tall  old  man,  tricked  out  in  a  frock-coat  of  coarse 
cloth,  and  a  silk  hat  very  tall  and  very  new.  This 
sunburned  and  wrinkled  peasant,  with  his  knotted 
finger-joints,  deformed  by  hard  work,  looked  more 
sunburned  and  sinister  than  ever,  in  the  clothes  of  a 
gentleman.  Obstinacy  stamped  his  features,  and  a 
big  hooked  nose  like  an  Apache  Indian's,  pinched 
lips,  and  wrinkles  that  maliciousness  had  written 
upon  his  face,  lent  to  his  countenance  a  ferocity 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  name  of  Chachignot. 

"  Come,  Eugene,  make  haste,"  he  said,  stepping 
on  to  the  ferry,  his  voije  trembling  with  anger. 
The  farmer's  wife  approached  him,  as  the  ferry- 
man was  saying,  "  What 's  the  matter,  Father 
Chachignot?" 

"Oh!  is  it  you,  Bla  he?  Don't  speak  to  me 
about  it.  I  am  furious.  I  hose  beggarly  Maziliers  !  " 
And  he  pointed  out  with  his  fist  a  tiny,  stunted,  dark 
figure,  going  back  along  the  hollow  road,  weeping. 

"  What  have  these  people  done  to  vex  you?  " 

"  What  have  they  done  ?  They  owe  me  four 
quarters'  rent,  and  all  my  vintage  besides,  and  I 
can't  get  a  single  sou  from  them.  And  now  I  '11 
put  it  in  the  sheriff's  hands,  and  he  will  throw  the 
blackguards  into  the  street." 

"  But  this  Mazilier  is  a  worthy  fellow.    Perhaps  it 


The  Ferry.  115 

is  not  his  fault  that  he  cannot  pay  you.  So  many 
people  have  lost  so  much  through  this  war." 

The  old  peasant  exploded. 

"  He  's  a  fool !  He  might  have  made  his  for- 
tune with  the  Prussians,  but  he  would  n't  do  it, 
not  he !  From  the  day  the  Prussians  arrived,  he 
closed  his  tavern,  took  down  his  sign.  At  other 
cafes  they  've  done  a  fine  business  during  the  war, 
but  he  refused  to  sell  a  single  sou's  worth.  Worse 
even  than  that.  He  managed  to  get  himself  put 
in  prison  through  his  insolence.  He's  a  fool,  I 
tell  you.  Why  did  he  meddle  with  affairs  that 
were  no  concern  of  his?  Was  he  one  of  the 
military?  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  furnish  wine 
and  brandy  to  his  customers.  Then  he  would 
have  been  able  to  pay  me,  the  rascal !  Well !  I  '11 
teach  him  how  to  play  patriot !  " 

And  red  with  indignation,  he  moved  about  in 
his  frock-coat,  in  the  clownish  fashion  of  a  country- 
man used  only  to  the  blouse. 

As  he  continued,  the  clear  eyes  of  the  farmer's 
wife,  filled  a  few  moments  before  with  compassion 
for  these  Maziliers,  grew  hard  and  almost  scornful. 
She  was  a  peasant  herself,  and  such  entertain  no 
very  high  opinion  of  those  who  refuse  to  make 
money  when  opportunity  offers.  At  first  she  had 
said,  "  It 's  very  hard  for  the  wife,"  but  a  moment 
later  she  observed,  "  Yes,  that 's  true,  one  should 
not  turn  his  back  upon  his  luck."  Her  conclusion 
was,  "  You  are  right,  old  man ;  when  one  owes  he 
must  pay."  Chachignot  repeated  again  and  again 
through  his  clenched  teeth,  — 


n6  Monday   Tales, 

"  He 's  a  fool !     He'sa  fool !  " 

The  ferryman,  who  was  listening  td  them  both, 
although  busied  in  steering  the  raft  along  with  his 
pole,  felt  that  he  ought  to  speak  now. 

"Don't  be  so  cruel,  Father  Chachignot;  what 
good  will  it  do  you  to  go  to  the  sheriff?  What 
would  you  gain  by  making  these  poor  wretches 
sell  their  all?  Wait  a  little.  You  can  afford  to 
do  that." 

The  old  man  turned  upon  him  as  if  bitten. 

"  Yes,  I  'd  advise  you  to  talk,  you,  a good-for- 
nothing  !    You  are  another  of  those patriots  ! 

Is  n't  it  a  shame  ?  Five  children  and  not  a  sou  for 
them,  but  he  must  amuse  himself  firing  off  cannons, 
which  no  one  compelled  him  to  do ;  and  I  put  it 
to  you,  monsieur  "  (I  believe  the  miserable  wretch 
addressed  myself!),"  what  good  has  all  that  sort  of 
thing  done  us?  Himself  for  example,  what  did  he 
gain  by  it?  He  got  his  face  battered  and  lost  a 
good  position  he  had.  And  now  look  at  him,  liv- 
ing like  a  gypsy  in  a  hole  open  to  every  wind  that 
blows,  his  children  sickening  from  it,  his  wife 
breaking  her  back  over  the  wash-tub.  Is  n't  he  a 
fool  too?" 

Anger  flashed  in  the  ferryman's  eyes.  I  saw  the 
scar  upon  his  wan  face  deepen,  and  grow  whiter, 
but  he  was  able  to  restrain  himself,  and  vented  his 
rage  upon  the  pole,  which  he  shoved  into  the  sand 
so  roughly  that  he  almost  twisted  it.  A  word  more 
might  have  cost  him  even  the  place  he  had,  for 
M.  Chachignot  is  an  authority  in  that  part  of  the 
country.     He  is  one  of  the  municipal  council. 


The  Color  Sergeant.  I17 


THE  COLOR   SERGEANT. 

I. 

The  regiment  was  fighting  upon  an  embank- 
ment of  the  railroad,  and  served  as  a  target  for  the 
whole  Prussian  army,  massed  opposite  them,  under 
shelter  of  the  woods.  Officers  cried,  "  Lie  down  !  " 
but  no  one  was  willing  to  obey,  and  the  valiant 
regiment  remained  standing  at  its  post,  grouped 
about  the  ensign.  Under  that  expanse  of  sky 
reddened  by  the  setting  sun,  with  pasture-lands 
and  fields  of  ripening  wheat  in  their  rear,  this  body 
of  soldiers,  harassed  by  the  enemy,  enveloped  in 
dense  clouds  of  smoke,  reminded  one  of  a  herd  of 
cattle  surprised  upon  the  open  plain  by  the  first 
whirlwind  announcing  the  approach  of  a  terrible 
storm. 

A  fire  of  shot  and  shell  rained  upon  the  talus 
formed  by  the  embankment.  Nothing  could  be 
heard  but  the  crackling  of  the  fusillade,  the  sound 
of  canteens  falling  heavily  into  the  ditch,  and 
the  lingering  echo  of  bullets,  which  vibrated 
from  one  end  of  the  battlefield  to  the  other,  like 
the  tense  strings  of  some  sinister,  resounding 
instrument. 

From  time  to  time  the  flag,  borne  aloft  above 
all,  stirred  by  the  breath  of  the  fusillade,  fell  amid 


ix8  Monday  Tales. 

clouds  of  smoke.  And  then,  drowning  the  sound  of 
the  firings,  of  the  death-rattle  and  the  curses  of  the 
wounded,  rose  a  stern  and  dauntless  voice,  "  To 
the  flag,  boys !  to  the  flag !  "  And  through  the 
red  mist  could  be  seen,  dimly,  the  shadowy  form 
of  an  officer  rushing  forward,  and  the  heroic  ensign, 
restored  to  life  again,  soared  once  more  above  the 
field  of  battle. 

Twenty-two  times  it  fell;  twenty-two  times  its 
staff,  still  warm  from  the  clasp  of  the  dying  hand 
which  relinquished  it,  was  seized  again,  and  borne 
aloft,  and  when  the  sun  had  set,  and  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  regiment,  a  mere  handful  of  men, 
slowly  beat  the  retreat,  all  that  was  left  of  the  flag 
was  a  mere  shred  in  the  hands  of  Sergeant  Hornus, 
the  twenty-third  standard-bearer  of  that  day. 


II. 


THIS  Sergeant  Hornus  was  an  old  fellow  who 
had  served  three  terms,  scarcely  knew  enough  to 
sign  his  own  name,  and  had  taken  twenty  years  to 
win  his  sergeant's  stripes.  All  the  wretchedness 
of  a  foundling's  life,  all  the  brutalizing  influences  of 
the  barracks  showed  themselves  in  his  low,  over- 
hanging forehead,  and  back  bent  beneath  the  con- 
stant burden  of  his  knapsack,  —  showed  themselves 
too  in  that  stolid  bearing  characteristic  of  a  soldier 
in  the  ranks.  And  besides,  he  had  a  slight  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech ;  but  to  be  color-sergeant  does 
not  require  much  eloquence.     The  very  evening  of 


The  Color  Sergeant.  no, 

the  battle  his  colonel  said  to  him,  "  You  have  the 
flag,  my  brave  fellow ;  keep  it." 

And  then,  upon  his  poor  field-cloak  that  had 
weathered  so  many  battles  and  storms,  upon  that 
cloak  all  faded  and  worn,  the  cantiniere  sewed  the 
golden  stripe  of  a  sub-lieutenant. 

Henceforth  that  humble  life  had  but  one  proud 
aim.  Suddenly  the  old  soldier's  form  grew  erect. 
That  poor  creature,  who  had  marched  all  his  life 
with  bent  shoulders  and  downcast  eyes,  from  that 
day  bore  himself  boldly,  his  glance  constantly  up- 
raised towards  that  bit  of  tattered  cloth,  that  he 
might  see  it  fluttering  above  him,  and  carry  it  erect 
and  high  —  so  high  that  not  death,  nor  treason,  nor 
defeat  could  touch  it. 

You  never  saw  a  happier  man  than  Hornus  upon 
the  day  when  a  battle  occurred,  his  staff  clasped 
tightly  in  both  hands,  and  firmly  held  in  its 
leather  sheath.  He  never  spoke,  he  scarcely 
moved.  He  was  as  solemn  as  a  priest.  It  seemed 
as  though  he  carried  some  consecrated  thing.  All 
his  energy,  all  hie  strength  was  in  the  fingers  that 
curled  about  that  beautiful  gilded  tatter  of  a  flag 
against  which  the  bullets  rushed ;  his  whole  soul 
flashed  in  the  eyes  which  hurled  defiance  at  the 
Prussians,  facing  them  squarely,  with  a  look  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  Come  on !  Try  to  take  it  from 
me !  "  But  no  one  made  the  attempt,  not  even 
death  itself.  After  Borny,  after  Gravelotte,  the 
most  murderous  battles  of  the  campaign,  the  flag 
emerged,  gashed,  rent,  pierced  with  wounds,  but 
no  one  bore  it  for  a  moment  except  old  Hornus. 


120  Monday   Tales. 


III. 


THEN  September  came,  with  the  army  before 
Metz,  —  the  blockade,  and  that  long  halt  in  the  mire, 
when  the  cannon  rusted,  while  the  first  soldiers  in 
the  world,  demoralized  by  inaction,  without  food, 
without  news,  died  of  fever  and  ennui  at  the  foot 
of  their  guns.  Both  commanders  and  soldiers  had 
lost  all  confidence ;  not  so  old  Hornus.  He  alone 
still  had  faith.  That  tattered  tricolor  was  all  in  all 
to  him,  and  as  long  as  he  perceived  that  it  was  still 
there,  he  could  not  realize  that  anything  had  been 
lost.  Unfortunately,  as  there  was  no  longer  any 
fighting,  the  colonel  kept  the  colors  in  his  own 
quarters,  outside  Metz,  and  the  brave  Hornus,  was 
almost  like  a  mother  that  has  put  her  child  out  to 
nurse.  He  thought  of  his  flag  ceaselessly.  And 
when  he  grew  weary  and  could  endure  it  no  longer, 
he  set  out  for  Metz  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  merely 
because  of  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  it,  and  always 
in  the  same  place,  resting  quietly  against  the  wall, 
he  returned  thence  full  of  courage  and  patience,  and 
under  his  wet  tent  dreamed  dreams  of  battle  and 
of  marching  on  to  victory,  with  the  tricolors  un- 
furled to  the  breeze,  and  floating  yonder  above 
the  Prussian  trenches. 

But  one  day,  at  an  order  of  Marshal  Bazaine's, 
all  these  illusions  crumbled.  That  morning,  when 
Hornus  awoke,  he  found  the  entire  camp  in  an  up- 
roar, the  soldiers  standing  in  groups,  greatly  ex- 


The  Color  Sergeant.  121 

cited  and  incensed,  uttering  cries  of  rage,  and  all 
raising  their  clenched  fists  towards  the  same  quar- 
ter of  the  town,  as  though  their  anger  were  aimed 
at  one  culprit  alone.  Cries  of  "  Away  with  him ! 
Shoot  him !  "  were  heard.  They  said  what  they 
would.  The  officers  did  not  attempt  to  hinder,  but 
walked  apart  from  them,  and  with  bent  heads,  as 
if  ashamed  to  look  their  men  in  the  face.  And 
indeed  there  was  cause  for  shame,  for  to  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  men,  well-armed  and  still 
able  for  service,  had  just  been  read  the  marshal's 
order,  which  handed  them  over  to  the  enemy, 
without  even  a  combat. 

"And  the  colors?"  demanded  Hornus,  growing 
pale. 

The  colors  were  to  be  delivered  with  the  rest, 
the  guns,  what  remained  of  the  equipages,  —  in 
short,  everything. 

"  To  .  .  .  To  .  .  .  Tonnerre  de  Dien ! "  stam- 
mered the  poor  man.  "  But  they  shall  never  have 
mine !  "  and  he  started  on  a  run  towards  the  city. 


IV. 


There,  too,  all  was  excitement  and  stir.  Na- 
tional guards,  citizens,  the  militia  were  shouting 
and  gesticulating.  Deputations  passed  by  on  their 
way  to  the  marshal  murmuring  as  they  went.  But 
Hornus  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  all  this.  He 
was  busy  talking  to  himself,  as  he  climbed  the  Rue 
du  Faubourg. 


122  Monday   Tales. 

"  Take  my  colors  from  me !  Ah !  we  shall 
see.  Impossible !  Who  has  the  right  to  do 
that?  Let  him  give  to  the  Prussians  what  is 
his  to  give,  his  gilded  coaches,  his  silver  plate 
brought  from  Mexico ;  but  this  thing  is  my  own, 
—  it  is  my  honor.  I  forbid  any  one  to  lay  hands 
upon  it." 

He  ran  so  fast,  and  his  tongue  stuttered  so,  that 
those  bits  of  phrases  were  chopped  in  pieces.  But 
all  the  same,  lodged  somewhere  in  his  brain,  he 
had  an  idea  of  his  own,  this  old  man !  And  it 
was  clear  enough,  and  it  could  not  be  driven  out ! 
He  had  resolved  to  seize  the  colors,  run  into  the 
midst  of  the  regiment  with  them,  and  rush  upon 
the  Prussians,  with  all  who  were  ready  to  follow 
him. 

When  he  reached  the  colonel's  quarters,  he  was 
not  allowed  to  enter.  The  colonel,  furious  himself 
at  what  had  happened,  would  see  no  one.  But 
Hornus  could  not  take  this  hint. 

He  swore,  shouted,  bullied  the  orderly,  insisting, 
"  My  colors  !     I  will  have  them  !  " 

Finally  a  window  was  opened. 

"  Is  that  you,  Hornus?  " 

"  Yes,  my  colonel,  I." 

"  All  the  flags  are  at  the  Arsenal.  You  have  onlv 
to  go  there,  and  you  will  get  a  receipt." 

"  A  receipt?     What  is  that  for?  " 

"  It  is  the  marshal's  order." 

"But,  colonel  —  " 

"  Oh,  get  out !  and  give  us  peace." 

Old  Hornus  staggered  like  a  drunken  man. 


The  Color  Sergeant  123 

"  A  receipt,  a  receipt,"  he  repeated  mechanically. 
|At  last  he  set  out  again,  understanding  one  thing 
[only,  his  colors  were  now  at  the  Arsenal,  and  he 
[must  recover  them  at  any  cost. 


V. 

The  doors  of  the  Arsenal  stood  wide  open,  that 
the  Prussians'  wagons  might  pass.  There  they 
waited,  drawn  up  in  line,  in  the  courtyard.  Hornus 
shuddered,  as  he  entered.  All  the  other  color- 
bearers  were  there  too,  fifty  or  sixty  officers,  de- 
jected and  silent.  And  those  sombre  carts  waiting 
in  the  rain,  the  men  grouped,  bare-headed,  behind 
them;  there  was  something  funereal  about  it  all ! 

In  one  corner  were  heaped  all  the  flags  of 
|Bazaine's  army,  lying  in  utter  confusion  upon  the 
muddy  pavement.  Nothing  was  more  saddening 
than  to  see  those  gaudy  shreds,  those  fragments  of 
gold  fringe,  carved  staffs,  all  those  glorious  trap- 
pings thrown  upon  the  ground  and  soiled  with 
mud  and  rain.  An  officer  in  charge  lifted  them 
one  by  one,  and  as  his  regiment  was  called  each 
color-bearer  advanced  for  his  receipt.  Two  Prus- 
sian officers  watched  the  loading  of  the  flags,  rigid 
and  unmoved. 

And  thus  ye  departed,  O  sacred  shreds  of  Glory, 
baring  your  wounds,  trailing  your  folds  along  the 
pavement,  like  a  bird  with  broken  wings.  So  ye 
departed,  bearing  with  you  that  shame  which  is  the 
portion  of  all  beautiful  things,  once  they  have  been 
sullied ;  and  a  bit  of  France  herself  went  with  the 


1 24  Monday   Tales, 

going  of  each  flag ;  the  sun  of  many  a  long  day's 
march  still  lingered  in  your  faded  folds,  where  the 
mark  of  many  a  bullet  guarded  the  memory  of 
the  nameless  dead,  slain  by  the  shots  chance  hurled 
igainst  the  banner  they  defended. 

"  Hornus,  it 's  your  turn.  They  are  calling  you„ 
?ro  and  get  your  receipt." 

As  if  he  cared  about  that ! 

His  flag  was  before  him  —  his  very  own  —  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  mutilated  of  all,  and  as  he 
saw  it  again  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  stood  once 
more  upon  the  talus.  He  heard  the  bullets  whistle, 
the  dented  canteens,  the  voice  of  his  colonel,  "  To 
the  flag,  boys !  to  the  flag !  "  There  he  saw  his 
twenty-two  comrades  stretched  upon  the  field,  and 
he  the  twenty-third,  rushing  on  to  raise  the  colors, 
to  support  the  flag  which  tottered,  for  the  arm  that 
had  held  it  had  relaxed  its  hold.  Ah,  on  that  day 
he  had  sworn  to  defend,  to  protect  that  flag,  even 
into  death!  and  now  — 

Thinking  of  that,  all  his  heart's  blood  seemed  to 
surge  to  his  brain.  Intoxicated,  dazed,  he  rushed 
upon  the  Prussian  officer,  seized  that  beloved  ensign, 
and  grasped  it  in  both  hands.  He  attempted  to  raise 
it  as  of  old,  erect  and  high,  crying,  "To  the  flag !  " 
but  his  voice  was  lost  in  his  throat.  He  felt  the  staff 
tremble,  slip  from  his  hands.  In  that  enervating, 
deathlike  atmosphere  which  weighs  so  heavily  upon 
a  conquered  city,  the  flag  itself  was  powerless  to 
float ;  no  valiant  heart  could  breathe  such  an  atmos- 
phere and  live.  Old  Hornus  fell  to  earth,  as  though 
a  stroke  of  lightning  had  crushed  him. 


The  Death  of  Chauvin.  125 


THE  DEATH  OF  CHAUVIN. 

One  Sunday  in  August,  travelling  in  a  railway 
coach  just  at  the  beginning  of  what  was  then  termed 
the  Hispano-Prussian  Incident,  I  met  him  for  the 
first  time.  Although  I  had  never  seen  him  before, 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  him  at  once. 
Tall,  lean,  grizzled,  a  fiery  face,  nose  like  a  buz- 
zard's beak,  and  rolling  eyes  with  an  angry  flame 
in  them,  and  never  relenting  to  amiability  save  for 
the  illustrious  gentleman  who  sat  in  the  corner, 
decorated  with  the  Cross  of  the  Legion.  As  I 
noted  the  low,  narrow  forehead,  stamped  with  ob- 
stinacy,—  one  of  those  foreheads  which  the  same 
thought,  working  ceaselessly  and  ever  in  the  same 
place,  has  at  last  dented  with  a  single  deep 
wrinkle, —  something  of  over-credulity  in  his  bear- 
ing, something  of  the  political  precisian  in  his 
manner,  especially  the  terrific  fashion  in  which  he 
rolled  the  letter  "rw  when  speaking  of  "  Fr-r:rance," 
and  of  the  "  Fr-r-rench  flag,"  caused  me  to  exclaim 
to  myself,  "  Here  is  Chauvin !  " 

And  Chauvin  indeed  it  was,  Chauvin  at  his  best, 
declaiming,  gesticulating,  belaboring  the  Prussians 
from  the  pages  of  his  newspaper,  Chauvin  enter- 
ing Berlin,  his  cane  upraised,  an  intoxicated,  deaf, 
blind,  furious  lunatic.  Conciliation  or  delay  impos- 
sible !  —  War !  war !  at  any  cost ! 


1 26  Monday   Tales, 

"But  what  if  we  are  not  prepared  for  that, 
Chauvin?  " 

"  Monsieur,  Frenchmen  are  always  prepared  for 
anything !  "  responded  Chauvin,  drawing  himself 
up  to  his  full  height;  from  beneath  his  bristling 
moustache,  an  explosion  of  r's  rushed  with  such 
energy  that  the  windows  fairly  trembled. 

Irritating,  foolish  personage !  How  quickly  I 
understood  all  the  jeers,  all  the  jesting  songs  that 
tradition  had  woven  about  his  name,  making  a 
celebrity  of  this  absurd  creature  ! 

After  that  first  meeting  I  swore  I  would  flee 
him,  but  through  some  singular  fatality  he  seemed 
ever  to  be  dogging  my  footsteps.  On  the  very 
day  in  the  Senate  when  M.  de  Grammont  had 
solemnly  announced  to  our  conscript-fathers, 
"  War  is  declared  !  "  in  the  midst  of  forced  accla- 
mations, a  formidable  cry  of  "  Vive  la  France !  " 
rose  from  the  galleries.  And  looking  upward  near 
the  friezes,  I  saw  Chauvin  brandishing  his  lank 
arms.  Some  days  later  I  ran  across  him  again  in 
the  Opera,  standing  in  Girardin's  box,  demanding 
to  hear  "  le  Rhin  Allemand," 1  and  observing  to  the 
singers  who  had  not  as  yet  learned  that  classic,  "To 
learn  it  will  take  longer  than  to  take  it !  "  2 

Soon  it  appeared  that  this  ubiquitous  Chauvin 
had  taken  complete  possession  of  Paris.  Every- 
where, at  street-corners,  on  the  boulevards,  always 
perched    upon  some  bench  or  table,  this  absurd 

1  Poem  written  in  reply  to  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein.  —  Tr. 

2  Chauvin  puns :  "  77  fandra  done  plus  de  temps  pour  Vap> 
prendre  que  pour  le  prendre  I ' ' —  Tr. 


The  Death  of  Chauvin.  127 

Chauvin  appeared  before  me;  wherever  drums 
were  beating,  flags  floating,  the  strains  of  some 
Marseillaise  sounding,  there  was  Chauvin,  distribut- 
ing cigars  to  the  soldiers  about  to  leave,  hailing  the 
ambulances,  that  hot  head  of  his  rising  above  the 
crowd,  inciting  them  whilst  he  roared,  clamored, 
and  invaded  every  spot,  until  it  almost  seemed  that 
there  were  six  hundred  thousand  Chauvins  in 
Paris.  Truly,  one  could  not  have  escaped  this 
intolerable  figure,  unless  he  had  shut  himself  up 
at  home,  and  locked  doors  and  windows. 

And  how  was  it  possible  to  remain  in  one  place 
after  Wissembourg,  Forbach,  and  all  that  series  of 
disasters  which  made  that  mournful  month  of 
August  seem  like  one  long  nightmare,  with  scarcely 
a  waking  moment,  the  nightmare  of  a  feverish,  op- 
pressive summer?  How  could  one  refrain  from 
mingling  with  that  restless,  moving  multitude,  run- 
ning in  search  of  news,  of  fresh  bulletins,  prome- 
nading all  night  long  beneath  the  gas-jets,  their 
faces  full  of  terror  and  consternation.  And  no  night 
of  all  that  I  did  not  encounter  Chauvin.  He  passed 
along  the  boulevards,  advancing  from  group  to 
group,  delivering  a  peroration  in  the  midst  of  a 
silent  crowd,  —  overflowing  with  hope,  with  good 
news,  sure  of  success  despite  everything,  repeating 
to  you  twenty  times  in  succession  that  Bismarck's 
white  cuirassiers  had  been  crushed  to  the  last  man  ! 

Singular  fact.  Already  Chauvin  had  ceased  to 
impress  me  as  before.  He  no  longer  seemed  to  me 
as  ridiculous  as  of  old.  I  did  not  believe  a  single 
word  he  was  saying,  but  what  of  that?    It  delighted 


128  Monday  Tales. 

me  merely  to  listen  to  him.  In  spite  of  his  blind- 
ness, his  insane  pride,  his  ignorance,  there  was  in 
this  diabolical  creature  a  passionate,  persistent 
energy  which  acted  like  a  vital  flame  warming  the 
heart. 

And  we  had  need  of  such  a  flame,  during  the 
long  months  of  the  siege,  during  that  terrible  win- 
ter when  we  lived  upon  horse-flesh  and  bread  fit 
only  for  the  dogs.  The  very  aspect  of  Parisians 
seemed  to  say,  "  Were  it  not  for  Chauvin,  Paris 
would  not  have  held  out  for  a  week !  "  From  the 
beginning  Trochu  had  said,  "  They  can  enter  when 
they  will !  " 

"  They  will  never  enter  !  "  said  Chauvin.  Chau- 
vin had  faith,  Trochu  had  none.  What  was  that 
to  Chauvin?  He  still  believed  in  notaries'  plans, 
in  Bazaine,  in  sorties ;  every  night  he  listened  to 
Chanzy's  cannons  booming  at  fitampe,  the  sharp- 
shooters of  Faidherbe  behind  Enghien,  and,  what 
was  most  wonderful  of  all,  even  the  rest  of  us  heard 
them,  so  deeply  had  the  spirit  of  this  heroic  imbe- 
cile entered  our  souls. 

Brave  Chauvin !  Who  but  he  was  ever  the  first 
to  sight  in  a  sky  livid,  overhanging,  and  full  of 
snow,  the  tiny  white  wing  of  some  carrier  pigeon  ! 
When  Gambetta  sent  us  one  of  his  eloquent  Taras- 
connades,  it  was  Chauvin's  powerful  voice  that  de- 
claimed it  at  the  door  of  every  mairie.  During 
the  keen  December  nights,  when  the  long  lines  of 
people  stood  shivering  before  the  butchers'  shops, 
chilled  and  weary  with  waiting,  Chauvin  bravely 
led  the  line,  and  thanks  to  him,  that  famished  crowd 


The  Death  of  Chauvin.  129 

found  they  still  had  strength  enough  to  laugh  and 
sing,  and  dance  in  the  snow. 

"  Le>  Ion,  /a,  laisscz-les  passer ■,  les  Prussiens  dans 
la  Lorraine"  chanted  Chauvin,  and  galoshes  clat- 
tered, beating  time,  and  for  a  moment  the  warm 
>f  health  returned  to  poor  wan  faces  framed  in 
woollen  hoods.  Alas!  of  what  avail  was  it  all? 
One  evening,  crossing  Rue  Drouot,  I  saw  an  anx- 
ious crowd  pressing  silently  towards  the  mairie,  ami 
in  that  mighty  Paris,  where  now  not  a  light  or  a 
carriage  was  to  be  seen,  I  heard  the  grandiloquent 
voice  of  Chauvin,  solemnly  proclaiming,  "  We  hold 
the  heights  of  Montretout !  "  A  week  later,  all 
was  over. 

From  that  day  Chauvin  appeared  to  me  only  at 
rare  intervals.  Two  or  three  times  I  saw  him  on 
the  boulevard,  gesticulating,  talking  of  r-r-revenge, 
—  for  that  letter  "r"  still  rolled  upon  his  tongue. 
But  no  one  listened  to  him  any  longer.  Fashion- 
able Paris  languished,  pined  for  its  former  pleas- 
ures ;  laboring  Paris  was  in  no  pleasant  mood. 
Vainly  did  poor  Chauvin  brandish  his  long  arms ; 
the  former  groups,  instead  of  surrounding  him, 
scattered  at  his  approach. 

14  A  regular  bore  !  "  said  some.  "  Spy !  "  cried 
others.  Then  came  the  days  of  insurrection,  of  the 
red  flag,  and  the  Commune,  —  Paris  in  the  power 
of  riotous  mobs.  Chauvin,  himself  a  suspect,  no 
longer  dared  to  stir  abroad.  Then  came  the  fa- 
mous day  when  the  Vendome  Column  was  pulled 
down.  Of  course  he  had  to  be  there,  in  a  corner 
of  the  Place.     The  crowd  guessed  it  was  he.     The 

9 


130  Monday  Tales. 

street-Arabs  insulted  him,  though  they  did  not  see 
him. 

"  Hallo !  there 's  Chauvin  !  "  they  exclaimed, 
and  when  the  Column  fell,  the  Prussian  officers, 
drinking  champagne  before  a  window  at  head- 
quarters, raised  their  glasses,  roaring  "  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Mossie  Chaufin." 

Till  the  twenty-third  of  May,  Chauvin  gave  no 
further  sign  of  life.  Crouching  at  the  bottom  of  a 
cellar,  the  unfortunate  was  reduced  to  despair  when 
he  heard  French  shells  go  whizzing  over  the  roofs 
of  Paris.  At  last  one  day,  between  two  cannonades, 
he  ventured  to  set  foot  outside. 

The  street  was  deserted,  and  seemed  wider  than 
when  he  had  seen  it  last.  On  one  side  rose  the 
barricade,  full  of  menace,  with  its  cannons  and  red 
flag,  on  the  other  two  short  chasseurs  of  Vincennes 
advanced,  keeping  close  to  the  wall,  and  stooping, 
their  guns  pointed.  The  troops  of  Versailles  had 
just  entered  Paris. 

Chauvin's  heart  bounded.  u  Vive  la  France  !  " 
he  cried,  darting  towards  the  soldiers.  His  voice 
was  lost  in  the  midst  of  a  fusillade  from  opposite 
sides.  Through  some  sinister  misunderstanding, 
this  unfortunate  was  a  target  for  both  sides,  the 
victim  of  a  twofold  hate  which  slew  him.  Upon 
that  road  whose  stones  had  been  uptorn,  his  body 
fell.  It  lay  there  for  two  days,  with  arms  out- 
stretched, and  with  rigid  face. 

Thus  perished  Chauvin,  martyr  of  our  civil  wars 
He  was  the  last  Frenchman ! 


Alsace!  Alsace!  131 


ALSACE!    ALSACE! 

I  HAVE  most  delightful  memories  of  a  journey  I 
made  some  years  ago  through  Alsace.  Not  that 
insipid  railroad-journey  which  leaves  naught  be- 
hind but  the  recollection  of  a  country  cut  by  rails 
and  telegraph  wires.  My  journey  was  afoot, 
knapsack  upon  my  shoulders,  with  a  good,  stout 
stick  for  my  comrade,  and  a  companion  who  was 
not  too  talkative.  The  best  way  to  travel ;  and 
what  vivid  memories  one  retains  of  all  he  has  seen 
in  that  fashion  ! 

Especially  of  late,  now  that  Alsace  is  closed 
against  us,  all  my  former  impressions  of  that  lost 
land  return  to  me.  What  delicious  surprises 
awaited  one  upon  those  long  rambles  through  that 
beautiful  country,  where  the  woods  raised  their 
dark  background  like  great,  green  curtains,  in  the 
rear  of  peaceful  villages  flooded  with  sunshine  ! 
Where,  at  some  winding  of  the  mountains,  one 
would  sight  belfry- towers  and  factories,  well  sup- 
plied with  streams,  saw-mills,  wind-mills,  and  here 
and  there  some  striking  figure  in  unfamiliar  cos- 
tume, darting  up  from  the  fresh  verdure  of  the 
plain. 

Every  morning  we  were  up  with  the  sun. 

"  Mossie,  Mossie !  it  is  four  o'clock !  "  the  inn- 
servant  would  call  to  us.     We  jumped  out  of  bed 


132  Monday   Tales, 

quickly,  and  our  knapsacks  buckled,  groped  our 
way  down  the  frail  little  stairway,  over  which  every 
step  echoed.  Downstairs,  before  setting  out  we 
drank  a  glass  of  kirsch  in  one  of  those  big  inn- 
kitchens,  where  an  early  fire  was  kindling  with  a 
crackling  of  twigs  that  brought  to  mind  the  remem- 
brance of  the  fog  clinging  to  damp  windows. 
We  set  out. 

It  requires  an  effort  at  first.  At  that  early  hour 
all  the  weariness  of  the  preceding  night  returns. 
Our  eyes,  and  the  air  as  well,  are  full  of  slumber. 
By  degrees  the  damps  of  the  early  dew  are  scat- 
tered, the  morning  mist  evaporates  in  the  sun. 
Once  started,  we  trudge  on.  When  the  heat  be- 
comes too  oppressive,  we  halt,  and  breakfast  by  a 
spring,  or  a  brook,  and  then  fall  asleep  in  the  grass, 
lulled  by  the  murmuring  of  the  water.  We  are 
awakened  by  the  noise  of  a  big  bee  which  just 
grazes  us,  whizzing  by  like  a  bullet.  Cooler  than 
before,  we  set  out  again.  After  the  sun  has  begun 
to  descend,  the  road  does  not  seem  as  long  as  be- 
fore. We  seek  a  resting-place,  an  asylum  for  the 
night,  and  thoroughly  weary,  fall  asleep,  sometimes 
in  the  bed  of  an  inn,  sometimes  in  a  barn  left  open, 
at  the  foot  of  a  haystack,  in  the  open  air,  disturbed 
by  no  other  sounds  than  the  murmur  of  birds,  the 
chirping  of  insects  among  the  leaves,  light,  spring- 
ing  steps  and  silent  flocks,  all  that  nocturnal  music 
which,  when  one  is  very  weary,  falls  upon  his  ear 
as  if  part  of  a  dream. 

What  were  the  names  of  those  charming  Alsatian 
villages  which  we  met  at  regular  intervals  at  the 


Alsace!  Alsace!  133 

road's  end  ?  I  cannot  now  recall  the  name  of  one 
of  them,  and  in  fact  they  all  resembled  each  other 
so  closely,  especially  as  we  travelled  through  Haut- 
Rhin,  that  after  we  had  passed  through  a  number 
of  them  at  different  times,  it  did  not  seem  to  me 
that  we  had  seen  more  than  one.  There  was  the 
main  road,  and  the  houses  looking  upon  it  all  had 
windows  with  tiny  panes,  encased  in  leaden  frames, 
garlanded  with  hop  and  rose  vines ;  over  the  lat- 
ticed gates  leaned  old  men,  smoking  their  big  pipes, 
or  women  stooped,  calling  their  children,  playing 
upon  the  road.  In  the  morning  when  we  passed 
by,  all  was  wrapped  in  slumber ;  we  could  scarcely 
hear  the  rustling  of  straw  in  the  stables,  or  the 
panting  breath  of  the  dogs  under  the  gates. 

The  village  we  reached  two  leagues  further  on 
is  just  awaking.  The  sound  of  the  opening  of 
shutters  is  heard,  the  splashing  of  bucketfuls  of 
water ;  gutters  overflow ;  the  cows  troop  lazily  to 
the  watering-troughs,  brushing  away  the  flies  with 
their  long  tails.  Farther  on,  the  next  village  looks 
just  like  the  preceding  one,  but  about  it  broods  the 
deep  silence  of  a  summer  afternoon,  interrupted 
only  by  the  drowsy  sing-song  of  the  village  school, 
and  the  monotonous  hum  of  bees  scaling  the 
clambering  vines  which  reached  to  the  very  top  of 
each  chalet.  And  always  one  is  sure  of  lighting 
upon  some  little  corner  which  reminds  him  that 
the  village  is  merely  a  part  of  the  province,  — 
sometimes  a  white,  two-story  house  with  a  new,  shin- 
ing insurance-sign  upon  it,  or  one  sights  a  notary's 
scutcheon,   or    a   doctor's    bell.      The    passer-by 


134  Monday  Tales. 

hears  the  notes  of  a  piano,  and  strains  of  a  waltz, 
somewhat  antiquated  it  is  true,  float  to  him  through 
the  green  blinds,  as  he  stands  upon  the  sunny 
road.  Later,  twilight  descends;  the  cattle  come 
home,  spinners  are  returning,  all  is  bustle  and  com- 
motion !  The  doorways  are  full  of  people,  troops 
of  little  flaxen-heads  in  the  streets.  The  windows 
are  aflame  with  the  last  ray  of  the  dying  sun,  com- 
ing one  knows  not  whence. 

I  still  recall  with  delight  a  Sabbath  morning  in 
an  Alsatian  village,  —  service-time,  the  streets  de- 
serted, the  houses  emptied,  but  here  and  there  an 
old  man  sunning  himself  before  some  doorway; 
the  church  full  of  people,  and,  streaming  through 
its  panes,  the  delicate  rose-tints  of  tapers  burning 
by  day,  —  the  plain-chant  coming  in  fitful  bursts 
along  the  passage,  a  choir-boy  in  scarlet  cassock 
hurriedly  crossing  the  Place,  bare-headed,  censer 
in  hand,  to  get  a  light  at  the  baker's  shop. 

Sometimes  for  whole  days  we  would  not  enter 
a  single  village.  We  sought  the  shade  of  many 
a  coppice,  of  untrodden  byways  and  delicate 
thickets  fringing  the  Rhine,  spots  where  its  beau- 
tiful green  waters  were  lost  in  marsh  land  swarming 
with  insects.  Through  the  slender  tracery  of  many 
a  branch  we  could  see  the  great  river  for  miles 
and  miles,  laden  with  rafts,  floats  loaded  with  grass 
cut  on  the  islands,  and  seeming  themselves  like 
tiny  floating  islands  borne  on  by  the  current; 
farther  on,  the  canal  leading  from  the  Rhone  to 
the  Rhine  —  with  its  long  border  of  poplars,  their 
green  tops  almost  touching  each  other,  reflected 


Alsace!  Alsace!  135 

in  those  familiar  waters,  narrowed,  hemmed  in  by 
artificial  banks.  Here  and  there  the  small  lodge 
of  the  lock-keeper  was  seen,  and  children  running 
barefoot  over  the  bars  of  the  lock,  and  amidst 
splashing  of  foam  huge  floats  loaded  with  wood 
advanced  slowly  across  the  entire  breadth  of  the 
canal. 

After  we  had  had  enough  of  zigzag  and  rambling 
paths,  we  would  retrace  our  steps  along  the  white 
main  road  which  leads  straight  towards  Basle,  a 
cool,  refreshing  road,  shaded  by  walnut  trees  —  the 
chain  of  the  Vosges  on  the  right,  the  Black  Forest 
on  the  opposite  side. 

And  when  the  July  sun  grew  too  oppressive,  oh  ! 
what  delightful  halts  I  have  made  at  the  edge  of 
that  road  leading  to  Basle,  stretched  at  full  length 
in  the  dry  grass  of  some  ditch,  listening  to  the 
music  of  partridges  calling  from  field  to  field,  and 
overhead  the  main  road  with  its  dismal  sounds  — 
a  carter's  oath,  a  passing  bell,  the  creaking  of  an 
axle,  the  sound  of  a  pickaxe  breaking  stones,  the 
hurried  gallop  of  a  gendarme,  —  at  which  a  flock  of 
geese  scatter  in  terror,  —  peddlers  bent  beneath 
their  packs,  the  letter-carrier,  his  blue  blouse 
trimmed  with  red  braid,  suddenly  leaving  the  high- 
way, to  disappear  from  sight  upon  a  little  cross- 
road bordered  with  wild  hedges,  at  the  end  of 
which  one  feels  sure  of  coming  upon  a  hamlet,  a 
farmhouse,  an  isolated  life. 

And  then  those  delightful  surprises  of  a  journey 
afoot,  —  those  short  cuts  that  lengthen  indefi- 
nitely, the  deceptive  tracks  of  carriage-wheels,  the 


136  Monday  Tales. 

trail  of  horses'  hoofs  which  lead  straight  to  some 
field,  the  deaf  gates  which  will  not  open  at  your 
call,  the  inns  full  of  people  when  you  arrive  —  and 
the  sudden  shower,  that  delicious  summer-shower 
which  the  warm  air  evaporates  so  quickly,  though 
the  steaming  plains,  the  fleece  of  flocks,  and  even 
the  herdsman's  coat  attest  its  presence. 

I  remember  how  a  terrific  storm  surprised  us 
in  this  fashion  as  we  were  crossing  the  woods, 
descending  the  Ballon  d'Alsace.  As  we  quitted 
the  inn  at  its  summit,  the  clouds  were  literally 
beneath  us.  A  few  pines  raised  their  tops  above 
them,  but  as  we  descended  we  actually  entered  a 
land  of  wind  and  rain  and.  hail.  Soon  we  were 
imprisoned,  enmeshed  in  a  perfect  network  of 
lightnings.  Almost  at  our  feet  a  fir  fell  with  a 
crash,  struck  by  lightning;  and  whilst  we  went 
tumbling  down  a  short  schlitage,  we  saw  through  a 
film  of  gushing  water  a  group  of  tiny  maidens  who 
had  sought  shelter  amongst  the  rocks.  Terrified, 
pressing  closely  against  each  other,  their  hands  had 
all  they  could  do  to  hold  their  calico  aprons  and 
their  small  wicker-baskets  filled  with  black  bilberries 
freshly  picked.  On  each  tiny  berry  glistened  a 
point  of  light,  and  the  little  black  eyes  which 
darted  at  us  from  that  hiding-place  in  the  rocks 
resembled  those  shining  berries.  The  great  fir 
lying  prone  upon  the  descent,  the  reverberation  of 
the  thunder,  the  sight  of  these  tiny  rovers  of  the 
forest  so  charming  in  their  tatters,  —  it  all  reminded 
one  of  some  tale  of  Canon  Schmidt's. 

And  what  a  delightful  flame  welcomed  us  when 


Alsace!  Alsace!  137 

we  reached  Rouge-Goutte !  What  a  splendid  fire 
to  dry  our  clothing,  while  we  heard  an  omelette 
crackling,  —  that  inimitable  omelette  of  Alsace, 
crisp  and  golden  as  a  cake. 

The  morning  after  the  storm  I  saw  a  sight  which 
impressed  me. 

On  the  road  to  Dannemarie  at  a  turn  of  the 
hedge  was  a  magnificent  field  of  wheat,  cut  down, 
despoiled,  soaked  with  the  rain,  its  broken  stalks 
spreading  upon  the  ground  in  all  directions.  The 
heavy  and  ripened  ears  had  dropped  their  treasure 
in  the  mud,  and  hosts  of  tiny  birds  were  feeding 
upon  that  lost  harvesting,  hopping  about  the 
hollows  filled  with  wet  straw,  scattering  the  wheat 
far  and  wide.  A  sinister  sight,  this  pillaging 
beneath  that  clear  sky  and  in  the  bright  sunshine. 
Regarding  his  ruined  field,  stood  a  great,  tall 
peasant,  bent  in  figure,  clothed  in  the  costume  of 
ancient  Alsace.  Genuine  sorrow  could  be  read 
upon  his  features,  yet  at  the  same  time  a  certain 
calm  and  resignation  and  I  know  not  what  vague 
hope  —  as  if  he  would  tell  himself  that  though  his 
harvest  was  despoiled,  the  earth  beneath  belonged 
to  him  always,  —  fertile,  quickening,  faithful,  and 
that  while  the  soil  remained  his  own  he  need  not 
despair. 


1 38  Monday   Tales, 


THE  CARAVANSARY. 

I  CANNOT  recall  without  a  smile  the  sense  of  dis- 
enchantment I  experienced  on  catching  my  first 
glimpse  of  an  Algerian  caravansary.  That  de- 
lightful word,  which  casts  a  spell  over  all  the 
Oriental  and  enchanted  Land  of  the  Thousand  and 
One  Nights,  had  conjured  in  my  imagination  long 
vistas  of  arched  galleries,  Moorish  courts  planted 
with  palm  trees,  cool  and  refreshing  streamlets 
dripping,  with  melancholy  music,  upon  mosaic 
pavements,  and  everywhere,  stretched  upon  mats, 
travellers  in  Turkish  slippers,  smoking  their  pipes 
in  the  shade  of  some  terrace,  while  from  caravans 
halting  under  the  noonday  sun,  arose  the  heavy 
odor  of  musk,  of  scorched  leather,  attar  of  roses, 
and  golden  tobacco. 

Words  are  always  more  poetic  than  the  objects 
they  describe.  Instead  of  the  caravansary  I 
imagined,  I  found  an  ancient  inn,  of  the  Ile-de- 
France  type,  located  on  the  highway,  a  stopping- 
place  for  carriers  and  post-chaises,  with  its  branch 
of  holly,  its  stone  bench  at  the  doorway,  and  sur- 
rounded with  courtyards,  sheds,  barns,  and  stables. 

Far  enough  removed  it  was  from  my  dream  of 
the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  but  after  the  first 
sense  of  disillusion  had  passed  away,  I  was  quick 


The  Caravansary,  139 

to  perceive  the  picturesque  charm  of  this  out-of- 
the-way  Frankish  inn,  a  hundred  leagues  from 
Algiers,  and  standing  in  the  midst  of  an  immense 
plain,  against  which  rose  in  relief  innumerable  tiny 
hills,  crowding  closely  together,  and  blue  as  the 
waves  of  the  sea.  On  one  hand,  a  pastoral  of  the 
Orient  fields  of  maize,  a  stream  bordered  with 
oleander,  and  rising  here  and  there  the  white 
cupola  of  some  ancient  tomb ;  on  the  other  side, 
the  main  road,  lending  the  bustle  and  animation 
of  European  life  to  this  Old  Testament  scene.  It 
was  this  blending  of  the  Orient  with  the  Occident, 
this  flavor  of  modern  Algeria,  which  gave  to  the 
caravansary  of  Madame  Schontz  such  an  amusing 
and  original  physiognomy. 

I  can  still  see  the  Tlemcen  diligence  entering  the 
grand  courtyard,  in  the  midst  of  camels  squatted 
about,  heavy  laden  with  burnouses  and  ostrich  eggs. 
In  the  sheds  negroes  are  making  their  couscous, 
planters  are  unpacking  a  model  plough,  and  Mal- 
tese are  playing  cards  upon  a  wheat-measure. 
Travellers  alight,  and  fresh  relays  of  horses  are 
brought.  The  courtyard  is  completely  blocked. 
A  red-coated  spahi  is  performing  a  fantasia  for  the 
benefit  of  the  maids  of  the  inn.  Two  gendarmes 
have  halted  in  front  of  the  kitchen,  and  are  drain- 
ing a  bumper  without  dismounting.  In  a  corner 
some  Algerian  Jews  in  blue  hose,  and  caps  on  their 
heads,  are  sleeping  upon  woollen  bales,  waiting 
for  the  market  to  open ;  for  twice  a  week  the 
Arabs  hold  a  great  fair  before  the  walls  of  the 
caravansary. 


1 40  Monday   Tales. 

On  those  days,  when  I  opened  my  windows  1 
saw  before  me  a  forest  of  tents  scattered  about  in 
confusion,  a  surging,  clamorous  crowd  in  gay 
colors;  the  red  chechias  of  the  Kabyles  blazed 
like  wild  poppies  in  a  field,  and  until  evening  there 
were  continual  cries,  disputes,  and  a  swarm  of 
dusky  figures  moved  back  and  forth  in  the  sun- 
light. As  twilight  came  on,  they  folded  their 
tents;  men,  horses,  and  all  disappeared,  as  might 
one  of  those  tiny  worlds  of  innumerable  motes 
which  are  lodged  in  a  sunbeam.  The  plateau  was 
deserted,  the  plain  grew  silent  again,  and  the  twi- 
light of  the  Orient  tinged  the  sky  with  its  tender 
iris-tints,  as  fugitive  as  the  colors  upon  a  soap- 
bubble.  For  ten  minutes  the  sky  was  tinged  with 
rose.  There  was,  I  remember,  at  the  entrance  to 
the  caravansary,  an  old  well,  and  it  was  so  com- 
pletely bathed  in  the  glimmering  sunset  that  its 
well-worn  curbstone  seemed  to  be  of  rosy  marble ; 
the  well-bucket  looked  a  flame,  and  drops  of  fire 
glistened  upon  the  rope.  Then  that  wonderful 
light,  like  the  flashing  of  rubies,  died  down,  and 
lilac  hues  grew  in  the  sky.  These  too  faded  out, 
and  the  sky  became  dark  and  sombre.  Indistinct 
sounds  began  to  traverse  the  plain,  and  suddenly 
in  the  silence  and  darkness  burst  forth  the  savage 
music  of  an  African  night,  —  the  bewildered  clamor 
of  storks,  the  barking  of  jackals  and  hyenas,  and 
at  long  intervals  a  sullen  roar  almost  solemn,  which 
made  the  horses  quiver  in  their  stables,  the  camels 
tremble  in  their  sheds. 

Oh !   how   pleasant   it   seemed,    after   shivering 


The  Caravansary,  141 

amid  the  hosts  of  darkness,  to  emerge,  and  to 
descend  into  the  dining-room  of  the  caravansary, 
and  find  there  laughter,  warmth,  light,  and  the 
charming  display  of  fresh  linen  and  sparkling 
crystal  which  is  so  in  keeping  with  French 
taste.  And  to  do  the  honors  of  the  table,  were 
Madame  Schontz,  an  ancient  Mulhouse  beauty, 
and  pretty  Mademoiselle  Schontz,  her  blooming 
cheeks  slightly  tanned,  her  Alsacian  head-dress 
with  its  black  tulle  wings  reminding  one  of  a  wild 
rose  of  Guebviller  or  Rouge-Goutte  upon  which 
a  butterfly  had  alighted.  Was  it  the  charm  of  the 
young  girl's  eyes?  Was  it  because  of  that  light 
Alsatian  wine  which  her  mother  poured  for  you 
at  dessert,  sparkling  and  golden  as  champagne? 
Certain  it  is  that  the  dinners  of  this  caravansary 
were  famed  far  and  wide  among  the  camps  of  the 
South;  sky-blue  tunics  mingled  with  the  short 
coats  of  hussars,  braided  and  decorated  with  frogs, 
and  far  into  the  night  lights  might  be  seen  burning 
in  the  windows  of  the  great  inn. 

The  repast  ended,  the  table  removed,  the  old 
piano  which  had  peacefully  slumbered  in  a  corner 
for  twenty  years,  was  opened  and  French  airs  were 
played,  or  to  a  Lauterbach  of  some  sort,  a  young 
Werther,  sabretache  at  his  side,  would  dance  a 
waltz  with  Mademoiselle  Schontz.  In  the  midst  of 
the  somewhat  noisy,  military  gayety,  the  rattling  of 
aiguillettes,  of  long-swords  and  brandy-glasses,  rose 
the  languorous  rhythm  of  the  dance,  two  hearts 
beating  in  unison  to  its  measure  and  absorbed  in 
the  mazes  of  the  waltz,  their  vows  of  eternal  love 


142  Monday   Tales. 

ceasing  only  with  the  last  strain.  It  would  be  hard 
to  picture  a  more  charming  scene. 

Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  the  great  double-door 
of  the  inn  would  open,  and  horses  pranced  into  the 
courtyard.  It  was  some  aga  of  the  neighborhood, 
who,  wearying  of  his  wives,  desired  to  taste  of  oc- 
cidental life,  listen  to  the  piano  of  the  roumis,  and 
drink  the  wine  of  France.  "  One  drop  of  wine  is  ac- 
cursed" says  Mohammed  in  the  Koran,  but  there 
are  compromises  even  with  the  Law.  As  each 
glass  was  poured  him,  the  aga,  before  drinking, 
took  one  drop  upon  his  finger,  shook  it  off  gravely, 
and,  that  accursed  drop  once  disposed  of,  he  drank 
the  rest  without  compunction  of  conscience.  Then, 
quite  dazed  by  the  music  and  the  lights,  the  Arab 
would  recline  upon  the  floor,  enveloped  in  his  bur- 
nous, —  not  uttering  a  word,  but  showing  his  white 
teeth  with  a  laugh,  and  following  the  whirls  of  the 
dance  with  kindling  eyes. 

Alas !  where  are  they  now,  —  Mademoiselle 
Schontz's  partners  in  the  dance?  Where  are  the 
sky-blue  tunics,  the  charming  hussars,  with  slender 
waists?  Sleeping  in  the  hop-fields  of  Wissenbourg, 
in  the  grassy  meadows  of  Gravelotte.  And  no  one 
comes  now  to  drink  the  light  wine  of  Alsace  at 
Madame  Schontz's  caravansary.  Both  women  are 
gone ;  they  died,  musket  in  hand,  defending  their 
inn,  set  on  fire  by  the  Arabs.  Of  the  ancient 
hostelry  once  so  full  of  life,  nothing  remains  but 
the  walls,  the  great  crumbling  framework  of  a  build- 
ing, so  suggestive  of  death  :  these  are  still  standing, 
but  they  are  completely  calcined.     Jackals  prowl 


The  Caravansary.  143 

about  in  the  courtyards.  Here  and  there  the  frag- 
ment of  a  stable  or  a  shed,  which  the  flames  have 
spared,  rises  like  a  living  apparition,  and  the  wind, 
that  wind  of  evil  omen,  which  for  two  years  has 
stormed  against  our  unhappy  France,  sweeping 
from  the  farthermost  borders  of  the  Rhine  unto 
Laghouat,  rushing  from  the  Saar  to  the  Sahara, 
passes  on  filled  with  plaintive  echoes,  wails 
through  the  ruins  of  the  caravansary,  beating 
against  its  gates  mournfully. 


144  Monday   Tales, 


DECORATED   THE   FIFTEENTH   OF 
AUGUST. 

One  evening  in  Algeria,  at  the  close  of  a  day's 
hunt,  a  violent  storm  surprised  me  on  the  plain  of 
Chelif,  at  some  leagues  from  Orleansville.  No- 
where the  shade  of  a  village  or  even  of  a  caravan- 
sary in  sight.  Nothing  but  dwarf-palms,  lentisk- 
thickets,  and  great  stretches  of  plough-land  reaching 
as  far  as  eye  could  see.  Moreover,  the  Chelif, 
swollen  by  the  shower,  had  begun  to  roll  in  an 
alarming  fashion,  and  I  stood  in  some  danger  of 
passing  the  night  out  in  a  swamp.  Fortunately, 
the  civil-interpreter  of  the  Bureau  at  Milianah,  who 
accompanied  me,  chanced  to  remember  that  quite 
near  us,  hidden  behind  a  slight  elevation,  there  was 
a  tribe  whose  aga  he  knew,  and  we  decided  to  go 
thither,  and  throw  ourselves  upon  his  hospitality 
for  a  night. 

These  Arab  villages  of  the  plain  are  so  com- 
pletely concealed  among  cactuses  and  Barbary  fig- 
trees,  their  gourhis  of  dried  earth  are  built  so  close 
to  the  ground,  that  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  vil- 
lage before  we  had  perceived  it.  Was  it  the  hour, 
the  rain,  the  intense  silence  that  impressed  me?  I 
do  not  know,  but  an  air  of  sadness  seemed  to  brood 
over  the  land,  as  if  the  burden  of  some  terrible 
anxiety  had  suspended  every  activity.     All  about, 


Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August.     145 

scattered  in  the  fields,  was  the  neglected  harvest. 
The  wheat  and  barley  had  been  gathered  elsewhere, 
but  here  it  was  rotting  upon  the  ground.  Rusted 
ploughs  and  harrows  lay  about  in  the  rain,  appar- 
ently forgotten.  All  the  tribe  seemed  to  wear  the 
same  air  of  sadness,  raggedness,  and  indifference. 
The  dogs  scarcely  barked  at  our  approach.  From 
time  to  time,  from  within  one  of  the  gourbis,  were 
heard  the  cries  of  a  child,  and  a  boy's  shaven  head, 
or  the  ragged  haik  of  an  old  man  could  be  seen  in 
the  thicket.  Here  and  there  young  asses  stood 
shivering  among  the  bushes ;  but  not  a  man,  not  a 
horse,  was  in  sight ;  it  seemed  as  if  one  had  fallen 
upon  war-times,  as  if  every  cavalier  had  departed 
from  the  place  months  before. 

The  aga's  house,  a  species  of  long  farm-building, 
with  white  walls  and  without  windows,  seemed  as 
destitute  of  life  as  were  the  surroundings.  We 
found  the  stables  open,  boxes  and  mangers  empty, 
and  not  a  groom  in  sight  to  receive  our  horses. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  Moorish  cafe,"  said  my  com- 
panion. The  cafe'  maure  of  an  Arabian  castellan 
serves  as  a  sort  of  reception-salon,  a  house  within 
a  house,  reserved  for  transient  guests,  —  a  place 
where  these  good  Mussulmans,  courteous  and  affable 
to  an  extreme,  find  opportunity  to  exercise  their 
hospitable  virtues,  while  preserving  that  privacy 
of  family  life  which  the  Law  commands.  The  cafe1 
maure  of  Aga  Si-Sliman  was  open  and  silent,  like 
the  stables.  The  high  walls  were  coated  with 
lime,  decorated  with  trophies  of  war  and  ostrich- 
feathers  ;   a  long  low  divan  ran  about  the  hall,  and 


146  Monday   Tales. 

it  was  dripping  from  the  torrents  of  rain  with  which 
the  storm  had  pelted  the  entrance.  Yet  the  cafe 
was  not  empty.  First  we  saw  the  cafetier  himself, 
an  old  Kabyle,  in  tatters,  squatting  with  his  head 
between  his  knees,  beside  a  brazier  turned  upside 
down.  Then  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  aga's 
son,  a  beautiful  boy,  but  feverish  and  pale ;  he  re- 
clined upon  the  divan,  rolled  up  in  a  black  burnous, 
two  great  greyhounds  at  his  feet. 

As  we  entered,  there  was  no  sound  or  sign  of 
life.  At  the  utmost,  the  head  of  one  of  the  grey- 
hounds may  have  moved,  the  boy  perhaps  deigned 
to  glance  in  our  direction,  his  beautiful  dark  eyes 
feverish  and  languid. 

"And  Si-Sliman,  where  is  he?"  asked  the  inter- 
preter. 

The  old  servant  made  a  vague  motion  of  the 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  horizon.  The  gesture 
seemed  to  say  that  his  master  had  gone  far,  very 
far.  We  understood  that  Si-Sliman  had  departed 
upon  some  long  and  important  journey,  but  as  the 
rain  would  not  permit  of  our  setting  out  again,  the 
interpreter,  addressing  a  few  words  in  Arabic  to 
the  aga's  son,  told  him  that  we  were  friends  of  his 
father,  and  asked  shelter  for  the  night.  The  boy 
at  once  rose,  and  in  spite  of  the  fever  which  was 
consuming  him,  gave  orders  to  the  cafetier;  then 
motioning  us  towards  the  divan,  with  a  courteous 
air  that  seemed  to  say,  "  You  are  my  guests," 
he  saluted  us,  Arab-fashion,  his  head  bowed,  a 
kiss  at  the  tip  of  his  fingers,  and  wrapping  his 
burnous  proudly  about  him,  left  the  hall  with  all 


Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August.     147 

the  gravity  of  one  who  was  an  aga  and  master 
of  the  house. 

Left  behind,  the  cafetier  relighted  his  brazier,  set 
upon  it  two  boilers  of  microscopic  size,  and  whilst 
he  was  making  the  coffee,  we  sought  to  obtain  from 
him  some  details  concerning  his  master's  voyage, 
and  the  cause  of  the  wretched  condition  of  the  tribe. 
The  Kabyle  spoke  quickly,  with  the  gestures  of  an 
old  woman,  but  in  a  beautiful  guttural,  which  was 
sometimes  precipitated,  sometimes  interrupted  by 
fits  of  silence,  when  we  could  hear  the  rain  drop- 
ping upon  the  mosaic  of  the  interior  courtyards, 
the  boilers  singing,  and  the  barking  of  jackals, 
scattered  in  thousands   upon  the  plain. 

This  is  what  had  befallen  the  unfortunate  Si- 
Sliman.  Four  months  before,  on  the  15th  of 
August,  he  had  received  that  famous  decoration  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  which  he  had  awaited  many 
years.  He  was  the  only  aga  of  the  province  who 
had  not  already  received  it.  All  the  others  were 
knights,  officers ;  two  or  three  even  wore  about 
their  haiks  the  big  ribbon  of  Commander,  and 
blew  their  noses  upon  it,  innocently  enough  (many 
a  time  have  I  seen  Bach'  Aga  Boualem  make  this 
use  of  his  ribbon).  What  had  prevented  Si- 
Sliman  from  receiving  the  decoration  was  a  quarrel 
he  had  had  with  his  chef  de  bureau  arabe,  over  a 
game  of  cards,  and  the  military  fraternity  is  so 
all-powerful  in  Algeria  that,  although  the  name  of 
the  aga  had  for  ten  years  stood  upon  the  list  of 
proposed  recipients,  it  was  all  to  no  avail.  Conse- 
quently you  can  perhaps  imagine  the  joy  of  brave 


1 48  Monday   Tales. 

Si-Sliman  when,  the  morning  of  the  15th  of  August, 
a  spahi  from  Orleansville  came  to  bring  him  the  tiny 
gilded  casket  containing  the  brevet  of  Legionary,and 
Baia,  best-beloved  of  his  four  wives,  fastened  upon 
his  camel's-hair  burnous  the  cross  of  France.  This 
furnished  the  tribe  with  the  occasion  for  numerous 
revels  and  interminable  fantasias.  All  night  long, 
tambourines  and  reed-pipes  resounded.  There 
were  dances,  rejoicings,  bonfires ;  I  know  not  how 
many  sheep  were  slain  for  the  feast ;  and  that  noth- 
ing might  be  lacking  on  the  occasion,  a  famous  im- 
provisator of  Djendel  composed  in  honor  of  Si- 
Sliman  a  magnificent  cantata  which  began  thus : 

"  Saddle  thy  coursers,  O  Wind ! 
Bear  the  glad  tidings  afar  !  " 

The  next  morning,  at  break  of  day,  Si-Sliman 
called  to  arms  his  contingent  forces,  both  the  ordi- 
nary and  the  reserve,  and  set  out  for  Algiers  with 
his  cavaliers,  that  he  might  thank  the  governor  in 
person.  At  the  gates  of  the  city  his  band  paused 
according  to  custom.  The  aga  presented  himself 
unaccompanied  at  the  Government  Palace,  saw  the 
Duke  of  Malakoff,  and  assured  the  latter  of  his 
devotion  to  France,  in  a  few  pompous  phrases  of 
that  Oriental  style  which  is  considered  figurative 
and  poetic,  since  for  three  thousand  years  it  has 
likened  all  youths  to  palm  trees,  all  women  to 
gazelles.  Having  performed  his  duty  at  the  palace, 
he  proceeded  to  the  upper  town,  permitting  him- 
self to  be  seen  paying  his  devotions  to  the  mosque 
as  he   passed    on,   distributing   silver    among    the 


Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August.     149 

poor,  visiting  barbers  and  embroiderers,  buying 
for  his  wives  perfumed  waters,  brocaded,  flowered 
silks,  blue  corselets  adorned  with  golden  passe- 
menterie, and  red  cavalier's-boots  for  his  young 
aga,  paying  for  everything  without  questioning  the 
price,  and  scattering  his  joy  abroad  in  beautiful 
douros.  He  was  to  be  seen  in  the  bazaars,  seated 
upon  Smyrna  rugs,  drinking  coffee  at  the  doors  of 
Moorish  shops,  the  shop-keepers  offering  him  con- 
gratulations. A  crowd  pressed  about  him  curiously, 
whispering,  "  Look !  that  is  Si-Sliman !  The 
Emberour  has  just  sent  him  the  Cross."  And 
many  a  little  Morisca,  returning  from  the  bath  and 
nibbling  pastry,  from  beneath  her  white  veil  sent 
prolonged  glances  of  admiration  towards  that  beau- 
tiful new  silver  cross  worn  so  proudly.  Ah !  life 
has  indeed  its  great  moments  ! 

Evening  come,  Si-Sliman  prepared  to  rejoin  his 
band,  and  he  had  just  mounted  when  a  chaouch 
from  the  prefecture  rushed  towards  him,  quite  out 
of  breath. 

"  Here  you  are,  Si-Sliman  !  —  I  have  been  hunt- 
ing for  you  everywhere.  Be  quick  !  The  governor 
wishes  to  speak  with  you." 

Si-Sliman  followed  him,  not  disquieted  in  the 
least.  But  in  crossing  the  Moorish  courtyard  of 
the  palace  he  chanced  to  encounter  his  chef  de 
bureau  Arabe,  who  regarded  him  with  an  evil  smile. 
That  smile  upon  the  face  of  an  enemy  terrified  him, 
and  he  trembled  as  he  entered  the  governor's 
chamber.  The  marshal,  sitting  astride  a  chair, 
received  him. 


1 50  Monday   Tales, ' 

"  Si-Sliman  !  "  he  said  with  his  usual  brutality, 
and  in  that  famous  nasal  voice  that  ever  caused 
those  about  him  to  tremble,  "  Si-Sliman,  my  boy, 
I  am  very  sorry.  There  has  been  a  mistake.  The 
decoration  was  not  intended  for  you  at  all.  It  was 
for  the  kaid  of  the  Zoug^Zougs.  You  must  return 
the  cross. " 

The  beautiful  bronze  face  of  the  aga  was  tinged 
with  sudden  red,  as  if  from  the  reflection  of  some 
forge  fire.  A  convulsive  movement  shook  his  tall 
body.  His  eyes  flamed.  But  the  flash  lasted 
only  for  a  second.  His  eyes  were  lowered  almost 
instantly;   he  bowed  before  the  governor. 

"  Thou  art  master  here,  my  Lord,"  he  said,  and 
unfastening  the  cross  from  his  breast,  he  placed  it 
upon  a  table.  His  hands  trembled.  Tears  quiv- 
ered at  the  end  of  his  long  eyelashes.  Even  old 
Pelissier  was  touched. 

"  Come,  come,  my  brave,  you  will  receive  it 
next  year;  "  and  he  extended  his  hand  with  an  air 
almost  friendly.  The  aga  feigned  that  he  did  not 
see  it,  bowed  without  responding,  and  departed. 
He  knew  just  how  much  value  to  attach  to  this 
promise  of  the  marshal's,  and  suddenly  realized  that 
a  mere  bureau  intrigue  had  brought  this  humilia- 
tion upon  him. 

News  of  his  disgrace  had  already  spread  through 
the  city.  The  Jews  of  Rue  Bab-Azoun  chuckled 
as  they  saw  him  pass.  The  Moorish  merchants,  on 
the  contrary,  looked  away  from  him,  pity  stamped 
upon  their  faces ;  and  it  was  this  very  pity  that 
pained  him  more  than  the  sneers  of  the  others. 


Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August.     1 5 1 

He  hastened  on,  keeping  close  to  the  walls,  seeking 
the  lanes  that  were  darkest,  most  secluded.  The 
spot  from  which  his  cross  had  been  plucked 
seemed  to  burn  him,  as  though  an  open  wound 
were  there.  And  all  the  time  he  thought  to  him- 
self, "What  will  my  horsemen  say?  What  will  my 
wives  say?" 

Then  followed  wild  outbursts  of  rage.  He  im- 
agined himself  waging  a  holy  war  yonder,  upon 
the  frontiers  of  Maroc  ever  reddened  with  incen- 
diary fires  and  battle,  or  rushing  through  the  streets 
of  Algiers  at  the  head  of  his  band,  pillaging  the 
Jews,  massacring  .the  Christians,  and  at  length  slain 
himself,  amidst  a  general  tumult  in  which  his 
shame  should  be  blotted  out.  All  these  things 
seemed  to  him  far  less  impossible  than  to  return  to 
his  tribe.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  schemes 
of  vengeance,  a  thought  of  the  Emperor  occurred 
to  him  like  a  sudden  gleam  of  light. 

The  Emperor !  For  Si-Sliman,  as  for  all  the 
Arabs,  that  name  was  the  embodiment  of  the  high- 
est justice  and  power.  For  these  Mussulmans  of 
the  decadence  he  was  the  true  pillar  of  their  faith ; 
that  other  head  at  Stamboul  appeared  to  these  dis- 
tant sons  as  an  imaginary  being,  a  sort  of  invisi- 
ble pope  who  had  preserved  for  himself  no  other 
power  than  the  purely  spiritual.  And  in  the 
Hegira  of  to-day,  we  know  how  much  value  that 
power  possesses. 

But  the  Emberour,  with  his  big  cannon,  his 
zouaves,  his  iron-clad  navy !  From  the  moment 
he  thought  of  the  Emperor,  he  felt  that  he  was 


152  Monday  Tales. 

saved.  Surely  the  Emperor  would  restore  Si- 
SHman's  cross  to  him.  There  would  be  a  week's 
journey,  but  he  was  so  sure  of  the  result  that  he 
desired  his  band  to  remain  at  the  gates  of  Algiers 
to  await  his  return.  The  packet-boat  left  the  next 
day,  bearing  him  towards  Paris,  and  he  was  as 
serene  and  composed  as  though  departing  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  Mecca. 

Poor  Si-Sliman  !  Four  months  ago  he  left,  and 
the  letters  he  sends  to  his  wives  do  not  hint  of 
return  as  yet.  For  four  months  the  unhappy  aga 
has  been  wandering  through  the  fogs  of  Paris,  his 
days  spent  in  running  from  one  department  to 
another,  laughed  at  everywhere,  caught  within  the 
formidable  machinery  of  the  French  Administra- 
tion, sent  from  bureau  to  bureau,  soiling  his  bur- 
nouses against  the  wood-boxes  of  antechambers, 
anxiously  awaiting  an  interview  that  will  never 
come ;  and  in  the  evening  he  is  seen  again  —  his 
tall,  sombre  figure  ridiculous  because  of  its  very 
majesty  —  waiting  for  a  key  in  the  office  of  some 
lodging-house;  and  then  he  ascends  to  his  own 
room,  weary  with  tramping,  with  attempts  that 
came  to  nothing,  but  lofty  and  proud  as  ever, 
clinging  to  a  last  hope,  as  furious  in  his  zeal  as 
some  gambler  who  has  staked  his  all,  in  pursuit  of 
his  honor. 

All  this  time  his  cavaliers  squatted  about  the 
Porte  Bab-Azoun  await  him  with  the  true  Oriental 
fatalism  of  their  race.  His  horses,  tied  to  their 
pickets,  neigh  towards  the  sea.  Among  the  tribe, 
all  is  suspense.     The  harvests  rot  upon  the  ground 


Decorated  the  Fifteenth  of  August.     153 

for  want  of  arms  to  gather  them.  Women  and 
children  count  the  days,  their  eyes  ever  turned 
towards  Paris.  And  it  is  pathetic  to  see  what  ruin, 
how  many  hopes,  how  many  fears,  hang  by  that 
bit  of  red  ribbon.     And  when  will  it  all  end  ? 

"  God  alone  knows,"  said  the  cafetier  with  a 
sigh,  and  looking  through  the  open  door  he 
pointed  with  his  bare  arm  across  the  sombre  plain 
wrapped  in  violet  mists,  pointed  towards  the  pale 
and  slender  crescent  of  the  moon,  climbing  a 
cloudy  sky. 


1 54  Monday   Tales. 


MY  KUPI. 

This  morning  I  came  across  it  again,  where  it 
had  lain  forgotten  at  the  bottom  of  a  closet ;  it  was 
dust-stained,  frayed  at  the  edges,  the  figures  were 
rusted,  the  color  had  faded,  and  it  was  almost 
shapeless.  I  could  scarcely  restrain  a  smile,  and 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah  !     There  you  are,  my  k6pi." 

And  suddenly  I  remembered  that  day  towards 
the  end  of  autumn,  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine,  the 
kindling  of  enthusiasm,  —  how  I  had  gone  down 
the  street,  proud  of  my  new  head- gear,  knocking 
my  gun  against  the  shop-windows,  as  I  went  on 
my  way  to  join  the  battalions  of  the  Quarter  and 
do  service  as  citizen-soldier !  Ah !  he  who  had 
told  me  then  that  I  was  not  going  to  save  Paris, 
deliver  France  by  my  own  unaided  strength,  would 
certainly  have  run  the  risk  of  receiving  the  point 
of  my  bayonet  straight  in  the  stomach. 

There  was  such  absolute  faith  in  the  national 
guard.  In  the  public  gardens  and  squares,  along 
the  avenues,  at  every  corner,  companies  were  gather- 
ing and  numbering,  —  long  lines  in  which  blouses 
and  uniforms,  caps  and  kepis,  were  seen  side  by 
side,  for  there  was  great  haste.  Every  morn- 
ing we  who  were  new  recruits  assembled  upon  the 


My  Kepi.  155 

Place,  beneath  the  low  arcades,  standing  at  the 
great  gates  in  the  draught  and  fog.  After  the  roll- 
call,  where  hundreds  of  incongruous  names  mingled 
in  a  grotesque  chaplet,  the  drill  began.  Arms 
straight  at  the  sides,  teeth  clenched,  the  various 
divisions  set  out,  keeping  step,  "  Left,  right !  left, 
right !  "  and  short  and  tall,  infirm,  poseurs,  figures 
clad  in  uniforms  that  brought  back  memories  of 
the  stage,  some  of  the  new  soldiers  encumbered 
with  immense  blue  bands  that  gave  them  the 
appearance  of  choristers,  —  all  of  us,  however  dif- 
ferent our  uniforms  were,  marched  and  faced  about 
within  our  limited  space  with  the  utmost  spirits 
and  confidence. 

All  this  would  have  seemed  absurd  enough  had 
it  not  been  for  the  deep  bass  of  the  cannon,  a 
continual  accompaniment,  which  lent  freedom  and 
scope  to  our  manoeuvres,  drowned  many  a  shrill 
and  feeble  command,  atoned  for  many  an  awk- 
wardness, many  a  blunder,  and  in  this  great  melo- 
drama of  Paris  Besieged  lent  just  that  sort  of 
stage-music  which  proves  itself  so  effective  in  the 
theatre,  when  the  pathetic  is  to  be  added  to  a 
situation. 

Finest  sight  of  all  when  we  mounted  to  the 
rampart!  I  still  can  picture  myself  on  those 
foggy  mornings,  passing  proudly  before  the 
Colonne  de  Juillet,  and  paying  it  military  honors. 
"  Carry  —  arms  !  "  And  then  those  long  streets  of 
Charenne,  full  of  people,  those  slippery  pavements 
where  it  was  so  difficult  to  mark  step.  Approach- 
ing the  bastions,  our  drums  would  beat  the  charge, 


156  Monday   Tales. 

Ran!  Ran!  I  fancy  now  I  am  in  the  midst  of  it 
all  again.  It  was  so  enchanting,  that  frontier  of 
Paris,  the  green  taluses  with  excavations  for  the 
cannon,  the  open  tents  full  of  animation,  the 
smoke  of  bivouac  fires,  figures  darkly  outlined  on 
the  heights,  —  looking  so  diminutive  as  they  wan- 
dered back  and  forth,  —  the  tops  of  kepis,  and  the 
points  of  bayonets  rising  here  and  there  above  the 
bags  piled  about. 

Oh  !  my  first  night  on  guard,  groping  my  way  in 
the  dark,  in  the  rain,  while  the  patrol  passed  on, 
jostling  each  other  on  the  wet  embankment,  slip- 
ping out  one  by  one,  and  leaving  me,  the  last, 
perched  above  the  Porte  Montreuil  at  a  formidable 
height.  What  beastly  weather  it  was  that  night ! 
In  the  deep  silence  that  enfolded  city  and  country 
nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  wind  sweeping 
over  the  ramparts,  making  the  sentinels  bend  be- 
fore it,  carrying  away  the  password,  and  causing 
the  panes  of  an  old  street-lamp  on  the  road  at  the 
foot  of  the  talus  to  rattle  dismally.  That  infernal 
street-lamp  !  Every  time  I  heard  it  I  fancied  it 
was  the  sabre  of  an  Uhlan  rattling,  and  I  remained 
there,  supporting  arms,  —  "Who  goes  there?" 
ever  on  my  lips.  Then  the  rain  grew  colder.  The 
gray  of  dawn  began  to  appear  in  the  direction  of 
Paris.  A  tower,  a  cupola,  could  be  distinguished. 
A  cab  was  heard  rumbling  in  the  distance,  a  bell 
struck.  The  mighty  city  awoke  from  slumber,  and 
shivering  at  the  first  moment  of  awaking,  tossed 
about  and  gave  signs  of  returning  life.  A  cock 
crowed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  talus.      At  my 


My  Kept.  157 

feet,  beneath  the  still  dark  road  over  which  my 
rounds  were  made,  a  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard,, 
a  rattling  of  iron,  and  in  reply  to  my  "  Halt !  who 
goes  there  ? "  uttered  in  a  terrible  tone,  rose  a 
little,  timid,  tremulous  voice  reaching  me  through 
the  fog, — 

"  A  woman  selling  coffee." 

You  smile?  But  what  could  be  expected  of  us? 
These  were  the  first  days  of  the  siege,  and  we 
fancied  to  ourselves,  poor  raw  militia  that  we  were, 
we  imagined  that  the  Prussians,  under  fire  from  the 
forts,  would  come  to  the  foot  of  the  ramparts,  set 
their  ladders  there  and  scale  them  some  fine  night, 
in  the  midst  of  huzzas,  with  port  fires  moving  to 
and  fro  in  the  darkness.  Imagination  anticipating 
such  things  as  these,  you  can  conceive  that 
there  were  frequent  alarms.  Scarcely  a  night  that 
the  cry  "  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  "  did  not  startle  us 
from  our  sleep.  Then  men  would  shove  and  jostle 
each  other  in  their  haste  to  reach  their  guns,  over- 
turning them,  while  the  startled  officers  exclaimed, 
"  Keep  cool !  keep  cool !  "  endeavoring  thus  to 
calm  themselves.  Later,  at  daybreak,  we  would 
perhaps  discover  that  the  enemy  had  been  merely 
a  runaway  horse,  capering  about  the  fortification 
and  nibbling  the  grass  of  the  talus,  and  that  our 
imaginations  had  mistaken  one  innocent  animal  for 
a  whole  troop  of  white  cuirassiers,  allowing  it  to 
serve  as  a  target  for  an  entire  bastion  in  arms. 

All  these  things  my  kepi  recalled  to  me  —  multi- 
tudinous emotions,  various  adventures  and  scenes : 
Nanterre,    la    Corneuve,    le    Moulin-Saquet,    and 


158  Monday  Tales. 

that  delightful  bend  of  the  Marne  where  the  in- 
trepid Ninety-sixth  saw  fire  for  the  first  and  last 
time.  The  Prussian  batteries  faced  us,  planted  at 
the  end  of  a  road  behind  a  thicket,  and  the  smoke 
rising  through  the  branches  reminded  one  of  some 
tranquil  hamlet.  Upon  the  unprotected  track  of 
the  railroad  where  our  chiefs  had  forgotten  us, 
shells  rained  upon  us  with  loud  and  terrible  force, 
and  ominous  flashes  were  seen.  Ah !  my  poor 
k£pi,  there  was  no  boasting  that  day,  and  again 
and  again  you  made  the  military  salute,  lower  per- 
haps than  was  fitting. 

No  matter !  those  are  delightful  memories ;  it  is 
all  slightly  grotesque,  no  doubt,  —  still,  a  feather  in 
the  cap  of  patriotism.  But  alas  !  you  recall  other 
memories  !  Unhappily  there  were  also  those  night- 
watches  in  Paris,  our  post  some  shop  that  was  to 
let;  within,  the  suffocating  heat  of  a  stove,  the 
shiny  benches;  there  were  monotonous  watches 
before  the  doors  of  some  mairie,  the  Place  covered 
with  the  slush  of  winter,  which,  melting,  reflected  the 
city  in  its  gutters.  While  doing  police-duty  in  the 
streets  amid  puddles  of  water,  we  would  carry  off 
drunken  soldiers  who  had  lost  their  way,  women, 
and  thieves ;  in  the  gray  light  of  early  morning  we 
would  return  to  our  quarters  weary,  covered  with 
dust,  the  smell  of  pipes  and  petroleum  clinging  to 
our  clothing.  And  then  there  were  those  long 
days  so  foolishly  spent,  with  elections  of  officers, 
attended  by  lengthy  discussions,  the  tittle-tattle  of 
each  company,  the  farewell  punches,  and  round 
upon  round  of  brandy,  men  explaining  each  to  the 


My  K'epL  159 

other  the  plan  of  campaign,  using  matches  to  make 
their  explanations  clearer;  there  was  the  excite- 
ment of  voting.  Politics  entered  upon  the  scene, 
with  her  sister,  righteous  idleness.  Hours  were 
spent  merely  in  lounging ;  difficult  indeed  to  know 
what  to  do  with  one's  self!  And  all  that  time  wasted 
weighed  upon  a  man  as  if  he  were  surrounded  by  a 
lifeless  atmosphere,  making  him  desire  to  gesticu- 
late, to  keep  in  motion.  There  were  hunts  for 
spies,  men  entertained  absurd  suspicions  of  each 
other,  and  confidence  equally  exaggerated ;  they 
dreamed  of  a  sortie  en  masse,  of  making  a  breach ; 
all  the  follies  and  delirium  of  an  imprisoned  people 
had  sway.  These  were  the  memories,  hideous  kepi, 
that  returned  to  me  at  sight  of  you.  You  too  had 
your  share  in  all  these  follies,  and  if  on  the  day 
after  Buzenval  I  had  not  tossed  you  to  the  top  of 
a  closet,  had  I  done  as  so  many  others,  who  in- 
sisted on  keeping  their  kepis,  decorating  them  with 
immortelles  and  gold  stripes,  merely  to  remain  an 
odd  number  in  some  scattered  battalion,  who 
knows  upon  what  barricade  you  might  have 
dragged  me  at  last?  Ah!  decidedly,  k6pi  of  revolt 
and  indiscipline,  k6pi  of  idleness  and  drunkenness, 
of  club  life  and  gossip,  kepi  of  civil  war,  you  de- 
serve not  even  the  waste  corner  which  I  allowed 
you  in  my  closet. 

Away  with  you  !     Into  the  waste-basket ! 


160  Monday  Tales. 


A  TUkCO   OF  THE  COMMUNE. 

He  was  a  little  drummer  of  the  tirailleurs  indi- 
genes} His  name  was  Kadour,  he  came  from  the 
tribe  of  Djendel,  and  he  was  one  of  that  handful 
of  turcos  who  dropped  into  Paris,  following  the 
fortunes  of  Vinoy's  army.  From  Wissembourg 
to  Champigny  he  had  served  through  the  cam- 
paign, crossing  one  battlefield  after  another,  like  a 
storm-bird,  with  his  iron  snappers  and  his  derbouka 
(Arabian  drum)  ;  so  full  of  life  he  was,  he  seemed 
to  be  in  so  many  places  at  once,  that  no  bullet  knew 
where  to  take  him.  But  when  winter  came,  the 
little  bronzed  African,  glowing  under  the  fire  of 
grapeshot,  could  not  endure  those  nights  at  the 
outposts,  and  the  hours  of  immobility  in  the  snow. 
One  January  morning  he  was  picked  up  on  the 
bank  of  the  Marne,  writhing  with  cold,  his  feet 
frozen.  For  a  long  time  he  remained  in  a  hospital. 
It  was  there  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time. 

Sad,  dumbly  patient  as  a  sick  dog,  the  turco 
gazed  about  him  with  wide-open,  gentle  eyes. 
When  some  one  spoke  to  him  he  smiled  and  showed 
his  teeth.  This  was  the  only  reply  he  could  make, 
for  our  language  was  unknown  to  him,  and  he 
could  scarcely  even  speak  the  Sabiry  that  Algerian 
1  Native  African  regiment. 


A    Tttrco  of  the  Commune.  161 

patois  composed  of  Provencal,  Italian,  Arabian,  — 
made  of  that  strange  medley  of  words  which  time 
has  gathered  like  sea-shells  along  many  a  Latin 
shore. 

To  divert  himself,  Kadour  had  only  his  derbouka. 
From  time  to  time,  when  his  weariness  was  too 
much  for  him,  the  drum  was  brought  to  his  bed- 
side and  he  was  permitted  to  play  upon  it,  but  not 
too  loudly,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  other  patients. 
Then  his  poor  dark  face,  so  lifeless  and  dull  in  the 
yellow  daylight  and  amid  the  dismal  wintry  sur- 
roundings of  the  street,  would  grow  animated 
again,  covered  with  grimaces,  as  he  followed  the 
rhythm  of  each  movement.  Presently  he  would 
beat  the  charge,  and  his  gleaming  white  teeth 
would  show  more  and  more,  and  he  would  smile 
ferociously;  sometimes  his  eyes  moistened  as  he 
beat  a  Mussulman  morning-serenade,  his  nostrils 
would  quiver,  and  breathing  the  foul  air  of  the 
hospital,  in  the  midst  of  phials  and  compresses,  he 
saw  once  again  the  groves  of  Blidah,  laden  with 
oranges,  the  little  Moriscas  coming  from  the  bath, 
enveloped  in  white  and  perfumed  with  vervain. 

Thus  two  months  passed.  During  that  time 
much  had  occurred  in  Paris,  but  Kadour  had  not 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  all  this.  He  heard  the 
troops  passing  beneath  his  windows,  weary  and  un- 
armed, the  guns  paraded,  rolled  about  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  the  tocsin,  the  cannonade.  Of  all 
this  he  understood  nothing  except  that  war  had  not 
ended,  and  that  as  soon  as  his  limbs  were  healed 
he  too  would  be  able  to  fight  again.  At  length, 
ii 


1 62  Monday  Tales. 

one  day  he  set  out,  his  drum  upon  his  back,  in 
quest  of  his  company,  and  he  had  not  long  to 
search.  A  group  of  Communists  passing  by  led 
him  to  the  Place.  After  a  lengthy  examination,  as 
nothing  could  be  gotten,  out  of  him  except  fre- 
quent repetitions  of  "  Bono  bezef,  machache  bono" 
the  general  of  the  day  finally  presented  him  with 
ten  francs  and  an  omnibus-horse,  and  attached  the 
turco  to  his  own  staff. 

In  the  various  staffs  during  the  Commune,  there 
was  a  little  of  everything,  red  blouses,  Polish  jack- 
ets, Hungarian  jerkins,  sailors'  coats,  gold,  velvet, 
embroidery,  and  spangles.  With  his  blue  coat 
embroidered  in  yellow,  his  turban,  and  his  derbonka, 
the  turco  added  the  finishing  touch  to  the  mas- 
querade. Overjoyed  to  find  himself  in  such  fine 
company,  intoxicated  with  the  sunshine,  the  can- 
nonading, and  the  turmoil  of  the  streets,  this  con- 
fusion of  arms  and  of  uniforms,  persuaded  more- 
over that  it  was  the  war  against  Prussia  that  was 
being  prosecuted  with  such  inexpressible  license 
and  vigor,  this  deserter,  who  did  not  even  know 
he  had  deserted,  mingled  narvely  in  that  great 
Bacchanal  of  Paris,  and  was  the  celebrity  of  the 
hour.  Wherever  he  went,  the  Commune  hailed 
him  and  feasted  him.  It  felt  such  pride  in  pos- 
sessing him  that  it  exhibited,  placarded,  bore  him 
about,  as  though  he  were  a  cockade.  Twenty 
times  a  day  the  Place  sent  him  to  La  Guerre,  La 
Guerre  despatched  him  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  For 
it  had  been  so  often  observed  that  their  sailors 
were  no  sailors  at  all,  their  artillery  make-believe ! 


A   Turco  of  the  Commune.  163 

This  at  least  was  the  real  thing,  a  genuine  turco. 
To  be  convinced  of  the  fact,  one  need  only  look  at 
the  lively  phiz  of  the  young  ape,  and  the  savage 
strength  of  that  little  body  rushing  from  place  to 
place  on  his  huge  horse,  pirouetting,  capering 
about  as  if  performing  a  fantasia. 

One  thing,  however,  was  lacking  to  complete  the 
happiness  of  Kadour.  He  longed  to  fight,  to 
smell  powder.  Unfortunately,  under  the  Commune, 
as  before  under  the  Empire,  the  staff  saw  little  of 
that.  Except  during  the  time  when  he  was  parad- 
ing, or  busy  upon  errands,  the  poor  turco  passed 
his  time  on  the  Place  Vendome,  or  in  the  court- 
yards outside  the  war  department,  or  in  the  midst 
of  disorderly  camps  Yull  of  barrels  of  brandy 
always  on  tap,  and  tubs  of  bacon  which  had  been 
smashed  open,  eating  and  drinking  bouts  follow- 
ing close  upon  the  famine  of  the  siege.  Too  true 
a  Mussulman  to  take  part  in  these  orgies,  Kadour 
held  himself  aloof,  remained  tranquil  and  sober, 
performing  his  ablutions  in  a  corner,  making  his 
couscous  with  a  handful  of  semolina,  and  after 
drumming  a  little  upon  his  derbouka,  would  roll 
himself  up  in  his  burnous,  and  fall  asleep  upon  a 
stone  step,  by  the  light  of  some  bivouac  fire. 

One  morning  in  the  month  of  May,  the  turco 
was  awakened  by  a  terrific  fusillade.  At  the  war 
department  all  was  commotion,  men  were  running, 
fleeing.  Mechanically  he  did  as  the  others  were 
doing,  jumped  upon  his  horse  and  followed  the 
staff.  The  streets  were  full  of  terrified  buglers, 
whole    battalions  were  in  utter   confusion.     Pave- 


164  Monday   Tales. 

ments  had  been  torn  up  to  form  barricades.  Evi- 
dently something  extraordinary  was  going  on. 
As  one  approached  the  quay  the  fusillade  was 
more  distinct,  the  tumult  greater.  On  the  bridge 
of  La  Concorde,  Kadour  lost  sight  of  the  staff. 
A  little  farther  on,  his  horse  was  taken  from  him. 
It  was  for  an  officer  whose  kepi  boasted  eight 
stripes.  He  was  in  haste  to  witness  what  was  hap- 
pening at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  Furious  at  losing 
his  horse,  the  turco  proceeded  to  run  towards  the 
thick  of  the  fray.  Rushing  on,  he  loaded  his 
chassepot  as  he  went,  muttering  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  "  Machache  bono,  Brissien ; "  for 
all  this  tumult  meant  to  him  that  the  Prussians 
were  entering  Paris.  Already  the  bullets  had  be- 
gun to  whistle  about  the  Obelisk  and  in  the  leaf- 
age of  the  Tuileries.  At  the  barricade  of  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli  the  avengers  of  Flourens  called  out, 
"  Hallo  there  !  turco,  turco  !  "  There  were  not 
more  than  a  dozen  of  them,  but  Kadour  was  worth 
an  entire  army. 

Standing  upon  a  barricade,  gaudy  and  proud  as 
a  flag  itself,  leaping,  crying,  he  fought  amid  a 
shower  of  grapeshot.  The  cloud  of  smoke  rising 
from  the  earth  lifted  for  a  moment  between  two 
cannonades,  and  he  could  see  red  trousers  massed 
about  in  the  Champs  Elys^es.  Then  all  became 
confused  again.  He  thought  he  was  mistaken, 
and  let  the  powder  speak  once  more  in  choicest 
accents. 

Suddenly  the  barricade  was  silent.  The  last 
of  the  artillery  had  fled,  despatching  its  final  volley. 


A    Turco  of  the  Commune.  165 

But  the  turco  never  budged.  In  his  hiding-place, 
ready  to  spring,  he  adjusted  his  bayonet  firmly,  and 
waited  for  the  pointed  helmets.  But  what  was  this 
he  saw?  The  line  advancing!  He  heard  the 
heavy  tramp  of  the  soldiers  marching  at  quick  pace, 
and  above  that  the  voices  of  officers  exclaiming : 

"  Surrender !  " 

For  a  moment  the  turco  was  stupefied ;  then  he 
advanced,  his  gun  held  aloft. 

"  Bono,  bono,  Franche  !  " 

Vaguely  to  his  savage  brain  had  come  the  idea 
that  this  was  the  army  of  deliverance,  Faidherbe, 
or  Chanzy,  for  which  the  Parisians  had  waited 
so  long.  How  delighted  he  was  !  how  he  laughed, 
showing  all  his  white  teeth !  In  an  instant  the 
barricade  was  crowded.  Men  surround  him,  push 
him  about. 

"  Let  us  see  your  gun." 

It  was  still  warm, 

"  Let  us  see  your  hands." 

They  were  black  with  powder.  The  turco  dis- 
played them  proudly,  and  still  with  that  fine  expan- 
sive smile  of  his.  Then  they  shoved  him  against  a 
wall,  and  —  bang! 

He  died  without  once  suspecting  what  it  all 
meant. 


1 66  Monday   Tales. 


THE  CONCERT  OF  COMPANY  EIGHT. 

All  the  battalions  of  the  Marais,  and  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint- Antoine  were  encamped  that  night 
in  the  barracks,  along  the  Avenue  Daumesnil. 
For  three  days  the  army  of  Ducrot  had  been  fight- 
ing upon  the  heights  of  Champigny,  and  the  rest 
of  us  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  believe  that  we 
formed  the  reserve. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  dismal  than  this 
encampment  upon  the  boulevard  exte'rieur,  sur- 
rounded by  factory-chimneys,  closed  stations,  and 
deserted  lumber-yards,  lighted  only  by  a  few  wine- 
sellers'  shops.  Nothing  more  glacial,  more  sordid, 
could  be  pictured  than  these  long  rows  of  wooden 
barracks,  erected  upon  a  ground  dried  and  hard- 
ened by  the  cold  of  December;  the  frames  of 
their  windows  were  badly  joined,  the  doors  were 
always  open,  and  the  smoky  lamps  dimmed  with 
the  fog,  like  lanterns  in  the  open  air.  It  was  im- 
possible to  read,  to  sleep,  to  remain  seated.  It 
was  necessary  to  invent  street  urchins'  games, 
merely  to  keep  warm;  men  were  seen  beating 
their  feet  together,  and  running  around  the  bar- 
racks. Such  absurd  inaction,  so  close  to  the  field 
of  battle,  was  as  ignominious  as  it  was  enervating, 
especially  on  that  night.    Although  the  cannonade 


The  Concert  of  Company  Eight.     167 

had  ceased,  all  felt  that  something  terrible  was 
about  to  happen  above,  and  from  time  to  time, 
when  the  electric  search-lights  of  the  forts  flashed 
upon  that  side  of  Paris  in  their  circular  movement, 
silent  troops  could  be  seen  massed  along  the  edge 
of  the  pavements,  and  others  ascending  the  avenue 
in  sombre  masses,  apparently  crouching  close  to 
the  ground,  and  looking  like  pygmies,  beside  the 
high  columns  of  the  Place  du  Trdne. 

I  was  standing,  almost  frozen,  hid  in  the  dark- 
ness which  wrapped  those  great  boulevards,  when 
some  one  said  to  me,  — 

"  Come  and  see  Company  Eight.  It  seems  they 
are  having  a  concert !  " 

I  went.  Each  of  our  companies  had  its  own 
barrack.  That  of  Company  Eight  was  much  bet- 
ter lighted  than  the  others,  and  crammed  with 
people.  Candles  fastened  to  the  end  of  bayonets 
were  flaming,  clouded  with  black  smoke.  They 
shone  in  full  upon  these  vulgar  mechanics'  faces, 
brutalized  by  drunkenness,  cold,  fatigue,  and  that 
wretched  sleep  taken  while  standing,  —  sleep  which 
makes  pale,  sallow  faces.  In  a  corner,  her  mouth 
wide  open,  the  cantiniere  was  dozing  curled  up 
upon  a  bench,  before  her  small  table  loaded  with 
empty  bottles  and  dirty  glasses. 

Some  one  was  singing.  As  their  turns  came, 
Messieurs  les  amateurs  mounted  a  stage  improvised 
in  the  back  of  the  room,  and  there  they  attitudi- 
nized, declaimed;  draped  in  their  blankets,  they 
recalled  melodramatic  memories.  I  listened  again 
to  those  robustious,  ear-splitting  voices,  such  as  one 


1 68  Monday  Tales. 

hears  resounding  from  the  extremity  of  some  pas~ 
sage,  or  from  those  working-men's  quarters,  filled 
with  clamorous  children,  noisy  workshops,  and 
bird-cages.  Such  a  voice  is  charming  to  hear 
when  it  mingles  with  the  music  of  tools,  with  an 
accompaniment  of  plane  or  hammer.  But  there 
upon  that  stage  the  sound  was  as  absurd  as  it  was 
painful. 

First  of  all,  we  had  the  pensive  working-man,  a 
mechanic  with  a  long  beard,  droning  the  woes  of 
the  proletary.  " Panvro prolttair-o-o-o  "  issued  from 
deep  down  in  his  throat,  in  a  song  in  which  the 
Holy  International  has  located  its  angers. 

Then  another  came  on,  half  asleep ;  he  sang  to 
us  the  famous  song  of  the  Canaille,  but  to  an  air 
so  wearisome,  slow,  and  doleful  that  one  might 
have  mistaken  it  for  a  lullaby,  —  "  Oest  la  canaille, 
■ —  eh  bien  !  jyen  suis  ;  "  and  while  he  was  chant- 
ing, we  could  hear  the  snoring  of  those  who  had 
sought  corners  determined  to  sleep,  and  with  a 
grunt  turned  about  trying  to  avoid  the  light. 

Suddenly  a  white  flash  passed  between  the 
boards,  and  caused  the  red  flame  of  the  candles  to 
pale.  At  the  same  time  a  heavy  sound  shook  the 
barrack,  followed  by  other  sounds,  heavier  and 
farther  away,  which  rumbled  among  the  hills  of 
Champigny,  and  then  grew  fitful  and  faint.  The 
battle  was  beginning  again.  But  Messieurs  les 
amateurs  scoffed  at  the  very  idea  of  a  battle. 

The  stage  itself  and  those  four  candles  had  stirred 
in  all  these  people  the  indescribable  instincts  of  the 
low  comedian.     It  was  curious  to  see  how  each  lay 


The  Concert  of  Company  Eight,     169 

in  wait  for  the  last  couplet  of  a  predecessor,  ready 
to  snatch  the  ballad  from  his  lips.  They  felt  the 
cold  no  longer.  Those  who  were  upon  the  stage, 
those  who  descended  it,  and  those  who  were  await- 
ing their  turn,  a  ballad  at  their  tongue's  end,  all 
were  perspiring,  red  in  the  face,  their  eyes  kindled. 
Vanity  kept  them  warm. 

There  were  local  celebrities  present,  among  them 
an  upholsterer-poet,  who  asked  permission  to  sing 
a  little  song  of  his  own  composition,  entitled  the 
Egoist,  with  a  refrain,  Chacun  pour  soi.1  And  as 
he  had  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  he  could  only 
say,  "  egoift"  and  "  facun  pour  foi."  It  was  a  satire 
upon  the  big-bellied  bourgeois,  who  would  rather 
sit  by  his  own  fireside  than  go  to  the  outposts.  I 
can  still  seem  to  see  the  fine  head  of  this  fabulist, 
who,  with  his  k^pi  askew,  his  chin-piece  strapped 
about  his  chin,  emphasized  every  word  of  his  chan- 
sonnette,  hurling  maliciously  at  us  that  refrain,  — 

"  Facun  pour  foi — facun  pour  foil* 

During  this  time  cannon  were  making  music  too, 
mingling  that  profound  bass  with  the  roulades  of 
the  mitrailleuses.  They  told  of  the  wounded  dy- 
ing of  cold  in  the  snow,  they  spoke  of  the  agony 
upon  the  roadsides  amid  pools  of  frozen  blood,  they 
told  of  blinding  shells,  of  shadowy  death,  stealing 
through  the  night  on  every  hand.  But  the  concert 
of  Company  Eight  continued. 

And  now  obscene  songs  began.  An  old  rigolo 
with  bloodshot  eyes  and  red  nose  frisked  about 
upon  the  stage,  followed  by  a  mad  stamping  of 
1  Each  for  himself. 


170  Monday  Tales. 

feet,  eries  of  "  Again !  "  and  bravos.  The  broad 
grin  which  greets  obscenities  permitted  among  men 
spread  over  all  these  faces.  Suddenly  the  cantiniere 
awoke,  and  hemmed  in  by  the  crowd,  devoured  by 
all  those  eyes,  contorted  her  features  into  the  sem- 
blance of  a  smile,  while  the  old  man  shouted  in  his 
husky  voice,  "  Le  bon  Dieu,  saoill  comme  un  — ." 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I  left.  My  turn  to 
be  on  duty  was  coming.  So  much  the  worse.  I 
needed  room,  and  air.  I  walked  straight  ahead, 
but  slowly,  towards  the  Seine.  The  river  was  dark, 
the  quay  deserted.  Paris,  wrapped  in  gloom,  de- 
prived of  gas,  was  slumbering,  encircled  with  fires. 
Everywhere  the  flash  of  the  cannon,  and  from  place 
to  place,  on  the  heights,  the  ruddy  light  of  incen- 
diary fires.  Quite  near  to  me,  I  heard  low  hurried 
voices,  sounding  quite  distinctly  through  the  cold 
air.  They  panted  for  breath,  they  cheered  each 
other  on. 

"  Ho  !  heave  there  —  " 

Suddenly  the  voices  stopped,  as  if  suspended 
because  of  some  arduous  and  mighty  labor  which 
requires  all  one's  strength.  As  I  approached  the 
edge  of  the  quay,  I  was  able  to  distinguish  in  that 
vague  light,  rising  from  the  still  darker  waters,  a 
gunboat  which  had  been  stopped  at  the  Bercy 
bridge,  and  was  trying  to  ascend  the  current. 
The  lanterns,  which  shook  with  every  movement 
of  the  water,  the  grating  of  the  cables,  which  sailors 
were  hauling,  indicated  the  falls,  the  recoils,  all  the 
shocks  of  that  struggle  against  the  malevolence  of 
the  river  and  the  night.    Valiant  little  boat !  how 


The  Concert  of  Company  Eight.     171 

impatient  all  these  delays  made  her.  She  churned 
the  water  furiously  with  her  wheels,  making  it  splash 
and  bubble  where  she  stood.  At  last  a  supreme 
effort  pushed  her  forward.  "  Courage,  boys  !  "  And 
when  she  had  passed,  and  was  advancing  directly 
onward  through  the  fog  towards  the  battle  which 
had  summoned  her,  there  rose  a  mighty  cry  of 
"  Vive  la  France  !  "  and  echoed  under  the  bridge. 
Ah !  that  concert  of  Company  Eight,  how  far 
away  it  seemed ! 


f  72  Monday   Tales, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PE  RE-LAC  HAISE. 

The  guard  began  to  smile. 

"  A  battle  here?  —  but  there  never  was  one.  It 
was  merely  an  invention  of  the  newspapers.  Listen, 
and  I  will  tell  you  all  that  really  happened.  On 
the  evening  of  the  twenty-second,  which  was  a 
Sunday,  we  saw  thirty  of  the  artillery  of  the  Com- 
mune approaching,  with  a  battery  of  two-inch  guns, 
and  mitrailleuse  of  the  newest  pattern.  They  sta- 
tioned themselves  on  the  highest  ground  of  the 
cemetery,  and  as  I  was  on  guard  in  that  especial 
section,  I  received  them  myself.  Their  mitrailleuse 
was  at  this  part  of  the  walk,  near  my  sentry-box, 
their  cannon  a  little  lower,  upon  this  terreplein. 
On  their  arrival,  they  compelled  me  to  open  several 
chapels.  I  thought  they  were  going  to  smash 
everything  to  pieces  and  pillage  in  general.  But 
arranging  them  in  good  order,  and  placing  himself 
in  their  midst,  their  chief  delivered  this  little  dis- 
course for  their  benefit :  '  If  one  blackguard  of 
you  all  touches  anything,  I  will  blow  off  his  jaw. 
Break  ranks.'  He  was  an  old  white-haired  fellow, 
with  medals  received  for  his  services  in  Italy  and 
the  Crimea;  his  manner  said  he  would  permit  no 
trifling.  His  men  understood  that  he  meant  what 
he  said,  and  I  will  do  them  the  justice  to  say  that 


The  Battle  of  Pere-Lachaise.        173 

they  did  not  take  a  single  thing  from  one  of  the 
tombs,  not  even  the  crucifix  of  the  Due  de  Morny, 
which  alone  is  worth  two  thousand  francs. 

"  Nevertheless,  they  were  a  villanous  rabble,  these 
artillerymen  of  the  Commune.  The  gunners  of 
the  occasion  thought  of  nothing  except  how  to 
spend  their  three  francs  and  a  half  of  extra  pay. 
You  should  have  seen  the  life  they  led  in  that 
cemetery !  They  piled  in  together  to  sleep  in  the 
vaults.  They  occupied  the  Morny  tomb  and  the 
Favronne,  that  beautiful  tomb  where  the  Emperor's 
nurse  is  interred.  They  cooled  their  wine  in  the 
Champeaux  tomb,  where  there  is  a  fountain.  They 
brought  in  women,  and  all  night  long  they  drank 
and  made  merry.  Ah  !  I  can  assure  you  that  our 
dead  must  have  heard  curious  things. 

"  All  the  same,  in  spite  of  their  want  of  skill 
those  bandits  did  not  a  little  harm  to  Paris.  Their 
position  was  admirable.  From  time  to  time  they 
would  receive  orders,  — 

"  '  Fire  upon  the  Louvre ! '  '  Fire  upon  the 
Palais-Royal !  ' 

"  Then  their  old  leader  would  direct  the  guns,  and 
shells  filled  with  petroleum  descended  upon  the 
city  at  random.  What  was  going  on  elsewhere 
below,  none  of  us  could  tell.  We  heard  the 
fusillade  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  but  the  Com- 
munists were  not  in  the  least  disturbed  about  that. 
With  the  battery-fires  of  Chaumont,  Montmartre, 
and  Pere-Lachaise,  it  did  not  seem  possible  to  them 
that  the  Versailles  forces  could  advance.  But  that 
which   sobered   them   a   little  was  the  first  shell 


174  Monday  Tales. 

which  a  naval  regiment  sent  our  way  on  arriving 
upon  the  hill  at  Montmartre. 

"  They  had  expected  it  so  little  !  I  myself  was  in 
their  midst,  leaning  against  the  Morny  monument, 
and  smoking  my  pipe.  Seeing  the  bombs  coming, 
I  had  no  more  than  time  enough  to  throw  myself 
upon  the  ground.  At  first  our  gunners  believed  it 
was  a  false  aim,  or  that  some  one  of  their  colleagues 
was  drunk,  but  I  can  tell  you,  at  the  end  of  five 
minutes  another  flash  from  Montmartre,  and  another 
plum  of  the  same  sort  arrived,  aimed  straighter 
than  the  first.  That  very  moment  these  jolly 
blades  dropped  their  guns  and  their  mitrailleuse, 
and  took  to  their  heels  without  ceremony.  The 
cemetery  was  not  large  enough  to  hold  them. 
They  cried  as  they  ran,  '  We  are  betrayed !  We 
are  betrayed !  ' 

"  The  old  man  alone  remained  there,  exposed  to 
all  the  fire,  worked  like  the  very  devil  in  the  midst 
of  his  battery,  and  wept  with  rage  to  see  that  his 
gunners  had  all  fled. 

"  However,  towards  evening,  when  paytime 
arrived,  a  few  of  them  returned.  Look,  Monsieur, 
upon  my  sentry-box ;  the  names  of  those  who  re- 
turned to  get  their  money  that  night  are  still  here." 
The  old  man  called  their  names,  inscribing  them  as 
he  did  so. 

"  '  Sidaine,  present ;  Chondeyras,  present ;  Billot \ 
Volt 'on— ' 

"  As  you  see,  there  are  not  more  than  four  or  five, 
but  they  had  brought  women  with  them.  Ah !  I 
shall   never   forget  that  evening  they  were  paid. 


The  Battle  of  Pere-Lachaise.        175 

Below,  Paris  was  in  flames,  the  Hdtel  de  Ville,  the 
Arsenal,  the  public  granaries.  In  Pere-Lachaise 
one  could  see  as  plainly  as  by  daylight.  The  Com- 
munists attempted  to  return  to  their  guns,  but 
there  were  not  enough  of  them;  and  besides, 
Montmartre  terrified  them.  So  they  retreated  into 
a  tomb,  and  began  to  drink  and  to  sing  with  their 
wenches.  The  old  man  had  seated  himself  between 
those  two  great  stone  figures  that  stand  at  the 
portal  of  the  Favronne  tomb,  and  his  face  was 
terrible  to  behold  as  he  watched  Paris  burning. 
He  looked  as  though  he  knew  his  last  night  had 
come. 

"  After  that  moment  I  scarcely  know  just  what 
happened.  I  returned  to  my  own  quarters,  —  that 
little  shanty  which  you  see  yonder,  hidden  among 
the  branches.  I  was  very  tired,  and  I  threw  myself 
upon  the  bed,  still  dressed,  keeping  my  lamp 
lighted  as  though  it  was  a  stormy  night.  Suddenly 
rough  knocking  was  heard  at  the  door.  My  wife 
went  to  open  it,  all  in  a  tremble.  We  thought  it 
was  the  Communists,  but  they  were  marines,  —  a 
commandant,  ensigns,  and  a  physician.  They  said 
to  me,  — 

"  '  Get  up  ;  make  us  some  coffee.' 

"  I  got  up  ;  I  made  their  coffee.  A  murmur  was 
heard  in  the  cemetery,  an  indistinct  movement  as 
if  all  the  dead  had  awakened  for  the  last  Judgment- 
day.  The  officers  drank  very  quickly,  all  standing ; 
then  they  took  me  out  with  them. 

"  The  cemetery  was  filled  with  soldiers  and  sailors. 
I  was  placed  at  the  head  of  a  squad,  and  we  began 


1 76  Monday   Tales. 

to  search  the  cemetery,  tomb  after  tomb.  From 
time  to  time,  when  the  soldiers  saw  something 
stirring  in  the  foliage,  they  would  fire  a  shot  towards 
the  end  of  a  walk,  and  it  would  graze  a  bust,  or 
pass  through  some  grating.  Here  and  there  they 
discovered  some  poor  wretch  hiding  in  the  corner 
of  a  chapel.  They  made  short  work  of  him.  That 
was  what  was  in  store  for  my  artillery-men.  I 
found  them  all,  men  and  women  huddled  about  my 
sentry-box,  the  old  fellow  with  the  medals  standing 
beside  them.  It  was  no  pleasant  sight  in  that  cold 
gray  dawn.  Brrr  !  But  what  stirred  me  most  was 
to  see  a  long  line  of  the  national  guards,  who  at  this 
very  moment  were  being  led  from  the  prison  of  La 
Roquette,  where  they  had  passed  the  night.  They 
climbed  the  broad  pathway  slowly,  like  a  funeral 
procession.  Not  a  word,  not  a  complaint  could  be 
heard.  These  unfortunates  were  utterly  crushed, 
exhausted.  There  were  some  who  were  asleep 
while  they  marched,  and  even  the  thought  that 
they  were  about  to  die  did  not  seem  to  awaken 
them.  They  were  forced  to  march  on  to  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  cemetery,  and  the  fusillade  began. 
One  hundred  forty-seven  of  them  there  were.  You 
can  imagine  whether  it  lasted  very  long.  And 
that  is  what  is  called  the  battle  of  Pere-Lachaise." 

Here  the  worthy  man,  perceiving  his  sergeant, 
left  me  quite  abruptly,  and  I  remained  there  alone, 
looking  at  his  sentry-box  and  those  names  written 
upon  it,  by  the  light  of  Paris  in  flames,  —  the  names 
of  those  who  had  returned  to  receive  their  last 
pay. 


The  Battle  of  Pere-Lachaise.        177 

I  pictured  that  night  in  May,  pierced  with  shells, 
red  with  blood  and  flames,  that  great,  lonely  ceme-' 
tery  illuminated  like  some  city  on  a  day  of  festi- 
val, the  guns  left  in  the  middle  of  the  paths 
around  the  open  vaults,  —  that  orgy  in  the  tombs, 
while  near-by,  surrounded  by  innumerable  domes, 
columns,  and  stone  images,  which  seemed  alive  in 
the  light  of  those  leaping  flames,  was  that  bust 
with  the  broad  forehead,  and  the  large  eyes,  —  the 
Sust  of  Balzac  regarding  the  scene. 


1 78  Monday   Tales. 


THE  LITTLE   PAT£S 

I. 

THAT  Sunday  morning,  the  pastry-cook  Sureau, 
of  the  Rue  Turenne  called  his  apprentice  and  said 
to  him,-— 

"  Here  are  Monsieur  Bonnicar's  little  patis. 
Carry  them  to  him,  and  return  at  once,  for  they 
say  the  army  from  Versailles  has  entered  Paris." 

The  boy,  who  understood  nothing  of  politics, 
put  the  pates,  still  warm,  into  his  tart-dish,  the  tart- 
dish  in  a  white  napkin,  and  balancing  pates,  dish, 
and  all  upon  his  cap,  set  out  on  a  run  for  lie  Saint- 
Louis,  where  Monsieur  Bonnicar  resided.  The 
morning  was  glorious,  sunshine  everywhere, — 
that  warm  May  sunshine  that  fills  the  fruit  shops 
with  bunches  of  lilacs  and  clusters  of  cherries. 

In  spite  of  the  distant  fusillade  and  the  bugle 
calls  at  street-corners,  all  that  venerable  quarter  of 
the  Marais  preserved  its  peaceful  physiognomy. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  Sabbath  in  the  air; 
voices  of  children  were  heard  in  the  courtyards,  tall 
girls  were  playing  shuttlecock  in  front  of  their 
doors,  and  that  little  white  outline  trotting  along 
the  deserted  street,  a  delicious  perfume  of  hot  pate 
accompanying  him,  succeeded  in  imparting  to  this 


The  Little  Pates.  179 

morning  of  battle,  a  certain  naive  and  Sunday  aspect. 
All  the  animation  of  the  quarter  seemed  to  be  there 
in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  Cannons  were  dragged  about, 
men  were  working  upon  the  barricades ;  at  every 
step  one  came  across  groups  of  the  national  guards, 
very  much  busied.  But  the  pastry-cook's  boy  did 
not  lose  his  head.  These  youngsters  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  making  their  way  through  a  crowd,  so 
used  to  the  hubbub  of  the  street !  It  is  on  feast- 
days,  when  all  is  noise  and  bustle,  on  New  Year's 
Days  and  Shrove  Sundays,  that  they  are  kept 
busiest,  running  about ;  revolutions  are  scarcely  a 
surprise  to  them. 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  that  little  white 
cap  insinuating  its  way  through  kepis  and  bayonets, 
avoiding  collisions,  keeping  that  tart-dish  nicely 
balanced,  sometimes  hastening,  sometimes  com- 
pelled to  move  slowly,  when  one  could  plainly 
see  it  wished  to  rush  on.  What  did  it  care  about 
the  battle  ?  The  chief  thing  was  to  reach  the  Bon- 
nicars'  just  as  twelve  struck,  and  to  receive  as 
quickly  as  possible  the  little  pourboire  which  was 
waiting  there  upon  a  shelf  in  the  anteroom. 

Suddenly  the  crowd  began  to  push  and  shove 
terribly,  and  the  pupils  of  the  Republic  passed  by 
at  a  run,  singing.  They  were  from  twelve  to  fifteen 
years  of  age,  decorated  with  chassepots,  red 
girdles,  and  big  boots ;  no  Mardi  Gras  masquer- 
aders,  running  along  a  muddy  boulevard,  wearing 
paper  caps  and  carrying  a  grotesque  pink  shred  of 
a  parasol,  could  have  been  prouder  than  they  to 
be  disguised  as  soldiers.     And  this  time  the  jost- 


180  Monday  Tales. 

ling  was  so  great  that  the  pastry-cook's  boy  found 
it  difficult  to  maintain  his  equilibrium  ;  but  his  tart- 
dish  and  he  had  slid  along  the  ice  so  many  times, 
had  taken  part  in  so  many  games  of  hop-scotch 
upon  the  sidewalk,  that  the  little  pat£s  had  ceased 
to  feel  any  fear. 

Unfortunately,  all  that  excitement,  those  songs 
and  red  girdles,  and  his  admiring  curiosity,  sud- 
denly inspired  the  pastry-cook's  boy  with  a  desire 
to  go  farther  in  such  fine  company,  and  passing 
beyond  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  the  bridges  of  lie 
Saint-Louis  without  even  perceiving  them,  he  him- 
self borne  onward,  following  that  dust-stained,  wind- 
swept, mad  procession  —  how  far  he  was  carried,  I 
do  not  know. 


II. 

FOR  at  least  twenty-five  years  it  had  been  the 
custom  of  the  Bonnicars  to  partake  of  those  little 
pat^s  every  Sunday.  Exactly  on  the  stroke  of 
twelve,  when  the  entire  family  —  large  and  small 
—  were  assembled  in  the  dining-room,  a  lively, 
cheery  ring  of  the  bell  was  heard,  and  every  one 
would  say,  — 

"  Ah  !  it  is  the  pastry-cook  !  " 

Then  there  would  be  great  bustling,  the  move- 
ment of  chairs  would  be  heard,  the  rustling  of 
Sunday  frocks;  the  children  distributed  them- 
selves joyously  about  the  table,  already  set,  and  all 
these    happy    bourgeois    would    seat    themselves 


The  Little  Pates.  181 

around  those  little  pat6s  symmetrically  piled  upon 
a  silver  warming-dish. 

But  upon  that  Sunday  the  bell  remained  mute. 
Scandalized,  Monsieur  Bonnicar  looked  at  his 
clock,  a  venerable  affair  surmounted  by  a  stuffed 
heron,  a  clock  which  never  in  its  lifetime  had  been 
either  a  moment  fast  or  a  moment  slow.  The 
children  stared  through  the  windows,  watching  the 
corner  of  the  street  where  the  pastry-man's  appren- 
tice usually  appeared  first.  Conversation  lan- 
guished, and  that  hunger  which  noon  with  its 
twelve  strokes  of  the  clock  usually  awakes  over- 
came every  one,  making  the  dining-room  seem 
very  large,  very  dreary,  in  spite  of  the  antique 
silver  gleaming  upon  the  damask  cloth,  and  the 
napkins  twisted  in  the  form  of  tiny  horns,  white 
and  stiff. 

Several  times  already  the  old  servant  had  come 
to  whisper  in  her  master's  ear  that  the  roast  was 
burnt,  the  little  green  peas  overcooked ;  but  Mon- 
sieur Bonnicar  was  determined  not  to  sit  down  at 
table  without  the  little  pat6s,  and  furiously  angry 
with  Sureau,  he  determined  to  go  and  learn  for 
himself  what  this  unheard-of  delay  might  mean. 
As  he  went  out,  brandishing  his  cane  and  very 
angry,  his  neighbors  gave  him  warning,  — 

"  Look  out,  Monsieur  Bonnicar !  People  say 
the  Versaillais  have  entered  Paris." 

But  he  would  hear  nothing,  not  even  the  sounds  of 
the  fusillade,  which  were  coming  from  Neuilly  across 
the  water,  not  even  the  alarm-gun  of  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  which  shook  every  window  of  the  quarter. 


1 82  Monday   Tales. 

"  Oh  !  that  Sureau  !  that  Sureau  !  " 

And  in  the  excitement  and  speed  of  his  walk  he 
talked  to  himself,  imagining  that  he  was  already  in 
the  middle  of  the  shop,  hammering  the  floor  with 
his  cane,  making  the  glass  of  the  showcase  and  the 
plates  of  pium-cake  tremble.  The  barricade  of 
Pont  Louis-Philippe  interrupted  his  anger  for  a 
moment.  Some  Communists  with  ferocious  mien 
were  there,  sprawling  in  the  sunlight  upon  the 
pavement,  whose  stones  had  been  removed. 

11  Where  are  you  going,  citizen?  " 

The  citizen  explained,  but  the  story  of  the  little 
pat6s  appeared  to  arouse  suspicion,  especially  as 
M.  Bonnicar  wore  his  fine  Sunday-coat,  his  gold 
spectacles,  and  had  every  appearance  of  being  an 
old  re  actio  nnaire. 

"  He  is  a  spy,"  said  the  f/de're's,  "  he  must  be  sent 
to  Rigault." 

Whereupon,  very  willingly,  four  men  who  were 
not  at  all  sorry  to  leave  the  barricade  drove  the 
exasperated  and  wretched  man  before  them  with 
the  butt-ends  of  their  guns.  I  do  not  know  how 
they  managed  it,  but  half  an  hour  later  they 
were  all  captured  by  the  Line,  and  were  sent  to 
join  a  long  file  of  prisoners  who  were  about  to 
be  marched  to  Versailles.  M.  Bonnicar  protested 
more  and  more,  raised  his  cane,  and  related  his 
tale  for  the  hundredth  time.  Unfortunately,  that 
story  concerning  the  little  pates  appeared  so  ab- 
surd, so  incredible,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
upheaval  of  the  city,  that  the  officers  merely 
smiled  at  it. 


The  Little  Pates.  18 


"  That 's  a  fine  story,  old  fellow.  You  shall  ex- 
plain all  about  it  at  Versailles." 

And  through  the  Champs  £lys6es,  white  with 
the  smoke  of  repeated  firings,  the  column  moved 
on  between  two  lines  of  chasseurs. 


III. 


The  prisoners  marched  five  abreast,  their  ranks 
closed  and  compact.  To  prevent  the  procession 
from  scattering,  they  were  compelled  to  walk  arm 
in  arm,  and  as  the  long  column  passed  on,  that 
human  herd  trampling  the  dust  of  the  road,  the 
sound  resembled  that  of  a  heavy  rain-storm. 

The  unhappy  Bonnicar  believed  he  must  be 
dreaming.  Panting,  perspiring,  dizzy  with  fear  and 
fatigue,  he  dragged  himself  on  at  the  end  of  the 
column,  between  two  old  hags  who  reeked  of  petro- 
leum and  brandy,  and  those  about  him  who  heard 
those  words,  "  pastry-cook,"  "  little  pat£s,"  repeated 
again  and  again,  amid  imprecations,  thought  he  had 
gone  mad. 

And  indeed  the  poor  man  had  lost  his  head.  As 
they  ascended  the  road,  descended  it  again,  when 
the  ranks  of  the  procession  would  open  a  little,  did 
he  not  fancy  he  saw  yonder,  in  the  dust  which  filled 
the  open  space,  the  white  jacket  and  the  cap  of 
that  boy  of  Sureau's?  And  ten  times  at  least  M. 
Bonnicar  seemed  to  see  him  upon  the  road.  That 
tiny  white  flash  passed  before  his  eyes,  as  if  to 


1 84  Monday   Tales, 

mock  him,  then  it  would  disappear  again  in  the 
midst  of  a  surging  multitude  of  figures,  some  clad 
in  uniforms,  some  in  blouses,  and  others  in  tatters. 
At  last,  just  at  sunset,  they  arrived  at  Versailles, 
and  when  the  crowd  saw  that  old,  spectacled  bour- 
geois, haggard,  untidy,  and  covered  with  dust,  with 
one  accord  they  discovered  that  he  was  a  scoun- 
drel of  the  deepest  dye.  They  said,  "  It  is  Felix 
Pyat  —  no  !  it  is  Delescluze." 

The  chasseurs  of  the  escort  had  some  difficulty 
in  conducting  him  safe  and  sound  to  the  courtyard 
of  the  Orangerie.  There  for  the  first  time  that 
wretched  procession  was  allowed  to  scatter,  to 
stretch  their  limbs  on  the  ground,  and  to  regain 
their  breath.  Some  were  half  asleep,  others  were 
swearing,  coughing,  weeping.  But  Bonnicar  nei- 
ther wept  nor  slept.  Seated  upon  a  stone  stairway, 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  three  fourths  of  him 
dead  from  hunger,  shame,  and  fatigue,  his  mind 
reverted  to  all  the  incidents  of  that  unhappy  day, 
his  departure  from  home,  his  companions  at  table 
anxiously  waiting,  the  table  standing  until  evening, 
expecting  him  still,  and  then  the  humiliation,  the 
injuries,  those  gun-butts  directed  at  him,  and  all 
this  merely  on  account  of  an  unpunctual  pastry- 
cook ! 

"  Monsieur  Bonnicar  !  here  are  your  little  pates  !  " 
a  voice  near-by  suddenly  exclaimed;  and  raising 
his  head,  the  worthy  man  was  much  surprised 
when  he  saw  that  pastry-cook's  boy  of  Sureau's  — 
who,  it  seems,  had  been  captured  along  with  the 
pupils  of  the  Republic  —  uncover  and  present  to 


The  Little  Pates.  185 

him  the  tart-dish  concealed  behind  his  white 
apron !  And  thus  it  happened  that,  in  spite  of 
the  ^meute  and  imprisonment,  upon  this  Sabbath 
as  on  every  other,  Monsieur  Bonnicar  ate  his  little 
pates. 


1 86  Monday   Tales, 


ABOARD:  A  MONOLOGUE. 

Two  hours  ago  every  light  was  extinguished, 
every  porthole  closed.  On  the  lower  gun-deck, 
which  serves  us  for  sleeping-room,  all  is  dark,  op- 
pressive, and  stifling.  I  hear  my  comrades  turning 
about  in  their  hammocks,  dreaming  aloud,  and 
groaning  in  their  sleep.  These  days  spent  in  utter 
idleness,  where  only  the  brain  works  until  it  is 
weary,  lead  to  'restless  nights  of  fevered  slumber, 
from  which  one  starts  again  and  again.  And  even 
that  slumber  will  not  come  to  me.  I  cannot  sleep ; 
my  thoughts  will  not  let  me. 

On  the  deck  above  the  rain  is  falling.  The 
wind  is  high.  From  time  to  time,  when  the  watch 
changes,  a  bell  at  the  bow  of  the  ship  rings  through 
the  fog.  Every  time  I  hear  it  I  am  reminded  of 
Paris,  and  the  six  o'clock  bell  ringing  in  the  fac- 
tories all  about  us.  There  are  plenty  of  factories 
in  our  neighborhood.  I  see  our  little  lodging,  the 
children  returning  from  school,  the  mother  seated 
in  the  back  of  the  workshop,  just  finishing  some- 
thing which  she  holds  up  to  the  window,  availing 
herself  of  the  last  bit  of  the  waning  daylight,  until 
she  comes  to  the  end  of  her  thread.  Alas  !  what  is 
to  become  now  of  everything  there  ? 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for  me  to  take 
them  with  me,  since  I  had  permission.     But  then, 


Aboard:  A  Monologue,  187 

what  could  one  expect?  They  would  be  so  far 
away  from  home.  I  feared  the  effect  of  the 
voyage  and  change  of  climate  upon  the  children. 
And  then  we  would  have  had  to  sell  our  stock  of 
trimmings,  our  little  property  brought  together 
with  such  effort,  collected  piece  by  piece  for  ten 
years.  And  my  boys  could  not  have  gone  to  school 
any  longer.  And  their  mother  would  have  been 
compelled  to  live  among  a  parcel  of  trulls !  No, 
indeed  !  I  would  rather  endure  it  all  alone.  And 
yet  when  I  climb  to  the  deck  above,  and  see  all 
those  families  seated  there,  as  if  they  were  quite  at 
home,  the  mothers  sewing,  the  children  clinging  to 
their  skirts,  I  could  almost  cry  every  time. 

The  wind  increases,  the  sea  swells.  The  frigate 
sails  on,  pitching  sidewise ;  the  masts  creak,  the 
sails  crack.  We  must  be  going  very  quickly.  So 
much  the  better.  I  am  almost  anxious  now  to 
reach  that  lie  des  Pins,  the  mere  thought  of  which 
terrified  me  so  when  I  was  sentenced.  It  will  be 
the  end  of  my  journey,  it  will  be  a  resting-place. 
And  I  am  so  weary.  There  are  moments  when  all 
that  I  have  seen  during  the  past  twenty  months 
rises  before  my  eyes  again,  and  makes  my  head 
swim.  The  Prussian  siege,  the  ramparts,  the  drill, 
the  clubs,  the  civil  interments,  immortelles  in  one's 
button-hole,  the  addresses  at  the  foot  of  the  Col- 
umn, the  feasts  of  the  Commune  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  the  reviews  of  Cluseret,  those  sorties,  the 
battle,  the  station  at  Clamart,  and  all  those  low 
walls  where  we  knelt  to  fire  upon  the  gendarmes ; 
and  then  Satory,  the  prison-hulks,  the  police,  the 


1 88  Monday   Tales. 

transportations  from  one  ship  to  another,  the  goings 
and  comings  which  made  one  ten  times  a  prisoner 
in  exchanging  prisons ;  and  lastly  the  chamber  of 
the  Council  of  War,  with  all  those  officers  in 
full  dress,  seated  at  the  rear,  in  the  shape  of  a 
horseshoe,  and  then  those  prisoners'  barges,  the 
embarkation,  the  farewell,  —  all  these  are  jumbled, 
confused  in  that  bewildered  state  which  comes  after 
tossing  about  a  few  days  at  sea. 

Oh! 

Hardship,  dust,  and  what  else  besides  I  do  not 
know,  have  covered  my  face,  like  a  mask.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  have  not  washed  for  ten  years. 

Ah,  yes !  it  will  seem  good  indeed  to  set  foot 
somewhere,  to  halt  at  last.  They  say  that  when  I 
get  there  I  shall  have  a  bit  of  ground,  tools,  a 
little  house.  A  little  house  !  yes,  we  dreamed  of 
such  a  one,  my  wife  and  I,  on  the  hill  at  Saint 
Mand6,  a  little,  low  house,  with  a  garden  spread 
in  front  like  an  open  drawer,  full  of  vegetables 
and  flowers.  There  on  Sundays,  from  morning 
till  night,  we  would  have  taken  our  airing,  sunned 
ourselves  for  the  whole  week  to  come,  and  when 
the  children  were  grown,  and  each  had  learned  his 
trade,  there  we  would  have  retired  to  enjoy  a 
peaceful  old  age.  Ah,  poor  fool,  see  where  you 
are  now !  on  the  retired  list  to  be  sure,  and  you 
will  have  your  house  in  the  country ! 

Oh,  misery !  when  I  think  that  politics  was  the 
cause  of  it  all !  And  I  always  mistrusted  their  in- 
fernal politics,  was  always  afraid  of  it.  At  first  I 
was  not  rich,  and  with  my  stock  to  pay  for  I  had 


Aboard:  A  Monologue.  189 

not  much  time  for  reading  the  papers,  or  listening 
to  all  the  fine  speakers  at  different  meetings.  But 
the  cursed  siege  came,  and  the  national  guard,  — 
nothing  to  do  but  to  brawl  and  to  drink.  Of  course 
I  must  go  to  their  clubs  with  the  others,  and  all 
their  fine  words  ended  by  turning  my  head,  — 
"  The  working-man's  rights  !  The  welfare  of  the 
People !  " 

When  the  Commune  came,  I  believed  that  the 
Golden  Age  for  the  poor  had  arrived.  Not  long 
after,  I  was  made  a  captain,  and  as  all  the  staff 
must  have  new  clothes,  all  that  lace,  those  frogs 
and  aiguillettes  gave  plenty  of  work  to  our  es- 
tablishment. Later,  when  I  saw  how  things  were 
going,  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  it  all,  but  I  was  afraid 
every  one  would  think  me  a  coward. 

What  are  they  doing  now  overhead?  I  hear  a 
rumbling  sound  —  a  voice  through  the  speaking- 
tubes.  Jack-boots  are  tramping  the  slippery  deck. 
These  sailors,  what  hard  lives  they  lead !  There 
is  the  quartermaster's  whistle,  rousing  them  from 
their  sleep.  They  climb  upon  the  deck,  not  yet 
awake,  and  moist  with  sweat.  They  must  hurry 
to  and  fro,  in  the  dark,  in  the  cold.  The  boards 
are  slippery,  the  riggings  are  frozen,  and  cause  the 
hands  that  cling  to  them  to  smart.  And  while 
they  hang  there  upon  the  yard-arms,  between  the 
sky  and  the  sea,  hauling  those  great  stiffened  sails, 
a  sudden  squall  seizes  them,  sweeps  them  off,  and 
scatters  them  upon  the  high  sea,  as  though  they 
were  merely  a  flock  of  sea-gulls.  Ah !  a  sailor's 
life  is  somewhat  rougher  than  that  of  a  Paris  work* 


1 90  Monday   Tales. 

ing-man,  and  not  as  well  paid.  And  yet  these 
fellows  do  not  complain,  do  not  rebel  at  it.  They 
look  perfectly  content,  their  clear  eyes  are  resolute 
enough ;  and  how  they  respect  those  who  command 
them !  It  is  plain  to  see  that  they  have  not  fre- 
quented our  clubs ! 

This  is  a  storm  indeed !  The  frigate  tosses 
horribly,  —  leaping  and  creaking  in  all  her  timbers. 
Floods  of  water  pour  upon  the  deck,  with  a  roar 
like  thunder;  after  that,  for  five  minutes  at  least, 
tiny  gutters  overflow  on  every  side.  There  is  a 
sudden  stir  about  me.  Some  are  sea-sick,  others 
are  afraid. 

This  enforced  immobility  in  the  hour  of  danger 
is  the  worst  form  of  imprisonment.  And  to  think 
that  while  we  are  huddled  here  like  so  many  cattle, 
groping  and  tossed  about  in  this  sinister  tumult 
which  surrounds  us,  so  many  of  those  charming 
sons  of  the  Commune  with  gilt  tassels  and  red 
plastrons  —  all  those  play  soldiers*  cowards  who 
drove  us  to  the  front —  are  placidly  enjoying  them- 
selves in  their  caf<£s,  in  theatres  at  London,  Geneva, 
and  so  near  France.  When  I  think  of  that  it 
makes  me  furious. 

Upon  the  gun-deck,  all  are  awake  now.  They 
call  from  hammock  to  hammock,  and  as  all  of 
them  are  Parisians,  they  begin  to  joke  and  laugh, 
and  chaff  each  other.  I  pretend  I  am  still  asleep 
so  that  they  may  let  me  alone.  How  horrible, 
what  torture  it  is  never  to  have  a  moment  to  one's 
self,  to  live  in  such  a  hive  as  this,  to  be  obliged 
to  grow  angry  when  these  others  are,  to  talk  as 


Aboard:  A  Monologue.  191 

they  talk,  make  believe  one  hates  what  he  does 
not,  —  all  this  that  he  need  not  be  taken  for  a  spy. 
And  that  endless,  endless  jesting  of  theirs  !  Good 
Lord !  what  a  sea !  Surely  the  gale  is  hollowing 
out  great  black  chasms,  into  which  the  frigate 
plunges  as  it  is  whirled  onward.  Yes,  surely,  it 
was  best  that  I  did  not  take  them  with  me.  It  is 
good  to  think  in  this  hour  that  they  are  at  home, 
safely  sheltered  in  our  little  chamber.  Deep  in  the 
gloom  of  the  gun-deck,  I  fancy  I  catch  the  gleam 
from  a  lamp ;  it  seems  to  fall  upon  the  foreheads 
of  the  children,  fast  asleep ;  and  their  mother,  lean- 
ing over  them,  muses,  and  works  the  while. 


192  Monday   Tales. 


THE   FAIRIES  OF  FRANCE. 
A   FANTASTIC   TALE. 

"The  prisoner  may  rise,"  said  the  presiding 
judge. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  upon  that  hideous  bench, 
where  were  seated  the  women  accused  of  trying  to 
set  fire  to  the  city  with  petroleum.  A  misshapen, 
shivering  creature  rose  and  leaned  against  the  bar. 
She  was  a  bundle  of  rags  and  tatters,  patches, 
strings,  old  flowers  and  feathers,  and  above  them 
all  a  poor  faded  face,  brown  and  shrivelled  and 
wrinkled ;  two  tiny  black  eyes  peered  out  from  the 
wrinkles,  twisting  round  and  round  like  some  lizard 
in  the  crevice  of  an  old  wall. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "    she  was  asked. 

"Melusine  —  " 

"What   did  you  say?" 

She  repeated  very  gravely,  "  Melusine." 

Under  the  heavy  moustache  of  a  colonel  of  dra- 
goons quivered  a  smile  which  the  president  con- 
cealed, and  he  continued  without  moving  a  muscle : 

"Your  age?" 

"  I  have  forgotten." 

"Your  calling?" 

Mama  fairy  S  " 


The  Fairies  of  France.  193 

For  one  sudden  moment  the  court,  the  counsel, 
even  the  government  commissary  himself,  all  burst 
out  laughing ;  but  that  did  not  disturb  her,  and  her 
clear,  shrill,  tremulous  voice  rose  through  the  hall, 
and  lingered  like  a  voice  heard  in  a  dream.  She 
continued,  — 

"Ah!  the  Fairies  of  France,  where  are  they 
now?  They  are  dead,  all  of  them,  my  good  sirs. 
I  am  the  last.  After  me,  none  will  remain.  And 
in  truth  it  is  a  great  pity,  for  France  was  more 
beautiful  when  she  had  still  her  fairies.  We  were 
the  poesy  of  the  land,  its  faith,  its  candor,  and  its 
youth.  All  our  favorite  haunts,  the  hidden  recesses 
of  parks,  overgrown  with  brambles,  the  stones 
about  each  fountain,  the  turrets  of  ancient  castles, 
the  mists  shrouding  each  pool,  and  the  great  fens, 
all  received  from  our  presence  a  nameless  magic 
gift  which  ennobled  them.  Through  the  luminous 
mist  of  legend  and  fantasy  might  be  caught 
glimpses  of  us  everywhere,  trailing  our  skirts  in  a 
ray  of  the  moon,  flitting  across  the  meadows, 
touching  the  tip  of  each  grass-blade.  The  country- 
folk loved  us,  reverenced  us.  And  fancy  bred  of 
innocence  adored  us,  and  even  feared  us  a  little, 
when  she  caught  sight  of  our  wands,  our  distaffs, 
our  foreheads  crowned  with  pearls.  And  so  our 
springs  remained  unsullied.  Even  the  plough 
would  pause  at  the  haunts  we  guarded,  and  as  we, 
the  oldest  people  in  the  world,  made  all  respect  old 
age  from  one  end  of  France  to  the  other,  lofty 
forests  were  allowed  to  flourish,  and  stones  crumbled 
into  dust  undisturbed. 

13 


194  Monday  Tales. 

"  But  the  age  has  progressed.  The  days  of  racl- 
roads  have  come.  Men  hollowed  out  tunnels,  filled 
up  our  ponds,  and  hewed  down  so  many  trees  that 
we  no  longer  knew  where  we  might  rest.  And  by 
degrees  the  country-folk  themselves  ceased  to  be- 
lieve in  us.  One  evening,  -when  we  knocked  at  his 
shutters,  Robin  said,  "  It  is  only  the  wind,"  and  fell 
asleep  again.  Women  came  to  dabble  their  washing 
in  our  pools.  From  that  day  all  was  ended  for  us. 
As  we  lived  only  in  the  popular  faith,  losing  that 
we  lost  all.  The  virtue  of  our  wands  has  vanished. 
Puissant  queens  we  once  were ;  now  we  appear  to  be 
old,  old  women  merely,  wrinkled,  malicious,  as  are  all 
forgotten  fairies.  Moreover,  we  must  win  our  bread, 
and  with  hands  that  never  yet  learned  to  do  aught. 
For  a  time  we  were  to  be  seen  in  the  forests,  drag- 
ging loads  of  dead  wood,  or  gleaning  by  the  roadside. 
But  the  foresters  were  hard  with  us,  the  country- 
folk threw  stones  at  us.  Then,  like  the  poor,  when 
they  can  no  longer  earn  their  living  in  the  country, 
we  departed  to  seek  work  in  the  great  cities. 

"  Some  went  into  the  mills,  others  sold  apples  at 
the  bridges  during  the  winter,  stood  at  the  church- 
doors  selling  beads.  We  pushed  carts  of  oranges 
along,  we  offered  to  passers-by  at  a  sou  apiece  bou- 
quets that  nobody  wanted.  The  children  mocked 
at  us  because  of  our  hanging  chins,  the  police  made 
us  move  on,  and  omnibuses  knocked  us  down. 
Then  came  sickness,  privations,  the  hospital-sheet 
over  us.  That  is  how  France  has  left  her  fairies  to 
die.     She  has  been  punished  for  that. 

"  Yes,  yes,  smile,  my  good  people.     But,  all  the 


The  Fairies  of  France,  195 

same,  we  have  seen  what  a  country  without  fairies 
may  become.  We  have  seen  our  well-fed,  sneering 
peasants  open  their  chests  for  the  Prussians,  and 
direct  them  along  our  roads.  You  see,  Robin  no 
longer  believes  in  sorcery,  but  he  has  also  lost  his 
faith  in  his  country.  Ah !  if  we  had  been  there, 
we  fairies,  of  all  those  Germans  who  entered  France, 
not  one  should  have  returned  alive.  Our  draks, 
our  will-o'-the-wisps  would  have  led  them  into  the 
quagmires.  Into  every  pure  spring  named  for  us 
we  would  have  poured  an  enchanted  potion  that 
would  have  made  them  go  mad.  And  at  our  meet- 
ings by  moonlight,  with  a  single  magic  word  we 
would  have  confused  the  roads  and  rivers  for  them, 
entangled  so  thick  with  brambles  and  briars  those 
hiding-places  in  the  woods  where  they  were  always 
squatting  that  even  the  little  cat-eyes  of  Monsieur 
de  Moltke  could  not  have  told  him  where  he  was. 
Had  we  been  there,  the  peasants  too  would  have 
marched  to  fight.  From  the  gorgeous  flowers 
about  our  pools,  we  would  have  extracted  balms  to 
heal  many  a  wound ;  gossamer-threads  we  would 
have  used  for  lint,  and  on  the  battle-field  the  sol- 
dier would  have  beheld  the  fairy  of  his  own  canton 
hovering  above  his  half-closed  eyelids,  to  show  him 
some  glade,  some  hidden  byway  that  might  remind 
him  of  his  native  land.  So  we  should  have  waged 
a  national  war,  a  holy  war.  But  alas  !  in  a  country 
whose  faith  is  dead,  a  land  that  no  longer  believes 
in  fairies,  such  a  war  is  impossible." 

Here  the  thin,  shrill  voice  paused  for  a  moment 
and  the  judge  interposed  a  word,  — 


196  Monday   Tales. 

"  All  this  does  not  tell  us  what  you  were  doing 
with  the  petroleum  that  was  found  upon  you  when 
the  soldiers  arrested  you." 

"  I  was  setting  fire  to  Paris,  my  good  sir," 
answered  the  old  "  fairy,"  calmly  enough.  "  I  was 
setting  fire  to  Paris  —  because  I  hate  it,  because 
its  laugh  spares  nothing,  because  it  is  Paris  that 
slew  us,  Paris  that  has  sent  its  savants  to  ana- 
lyze our  beautiful,  miraculous  springs,  and  to  say 
exactly  how  much  iron  and  sulphur  they  contain, 
Paris  that  has  mocked  at  us  from  its  theatres.  Of 
our  enchantments  it  has  made  mere  stage  tricks, 
our  miracles  it  has  perverted  into  vulgar  jests.  So 
many  vile  beings  have  masqueraded  in  our  rose- 
tinted  robes,  sat  in  our  winged  chariots,  with  Ben- 
gal fires  for  moonlight,  that  no  one  can  think  of  us 
now  without  a  smile.  Once  little  children  knew 
us  by  name,  loved  us,  feared  us  a  little,  but  instead 
of  the  beautiful  gilded  books  full  of  pictures, 
wherein  they  learned  to  know  our  history,  Paris 
to-day  places  in  their  hands  Science  adapted  to 
children,  big,  musty  volumes  which  make  their 
heads  tired  and  fill  their  baby-eyes  with  a  dull 
dust  that  effaces  every  image  of  our  enchanted 
palaces  and  magic  mirrors.  Oh,  yes  !  I  should 
have  been  overjoyed  to  see  it  in  flames  —  your 
Paris.  It  was  I  that  filled  the  cans  of  the  petroleum- 
women,  I  myself  that  led  them  to  the  best  places, 
saying,  'Come,  my  children,  burn  everything, — 
burn!  burn!'" 

"Decidedly  this  old  woman  is  mad,"  said  the 
judge.     "  Lead  her  away." 


PART   II. 

CAPRICES    AND   SOUVENIRS. 


CAPRICES    AND   SOUVENIRS. 


A  BOOK-KEEPER. 

"  Br-R-R  !  how  foggy  it  is  !  "  said  the  good  man, 
as  he  stepped  into  the  street.  He  pulled  up  his 
collar  quickly,  drew  his  muffler  over  his  chin,  and 
with  bent  head,  and  hands  buried  in  his  back- 
pockets,  he  set  out  for  his  office,  whistling  as  he 
went. 

And  foggy  indeed  it  was.  In  the  streets  this 
fog  is  not  so  noticeable ;  in  the  heart  of  a  great 
city  it  vanishes  as  quickly  as  the  snow  does. 
Roofs  intercept  it,  walls  absorb  it,  some  of  it  finds  a 
way  into  the  houses  every  time  the  door  is  opened  ; 
it  clings  to  the  steps,  making  them  slippery  and 
the  railings  humid.  The  rolling  of  carriages,  the 
coming  and  going  of  passers-by  —  those  poor  way- 
farers of  early  morning,  always  in  haste  —  cut  the 
fog,  scatter  it,  and  carry  some  of  it  onward.  It 
clings  to  the  shabby,  scant  clothing  of  petty 
clerks  on  their  way  to  work ;  it  clings  to  the  water- 
proofs of  shop-girls,  to  their  flimsy  little  veils,  to 
the  big  oil-cloth  boxes  in  which  they  carry  their 
work.  But  on  the  still  deserted  quays,  upon  the 
bridges,  the  banks,  the  river,  rests  a  heavy  mist, 
opaque,  immovable;   through  it  the  sun  is  rising 


200  Monday   Tales, 

yonder,  behind  Notre-Dame,  its  light  dimmed  as 
that  of  a  watch-lamp  seen  through  a  globe  of 
ground  glass. 

In  spite  of  the  wind  and  the  fog,  the  man  of 
whom  we  have  already  spoken  passes  along  the 
quays,  never  for  a  moment  leaving  them ;  he  could 
have  taken  another  road,  but  the  river  appeared  to 
have  some  mysterious  attraction  for  him.  It  afforded 
him  a  species  of  delight  to  walk  along  the  parapets, 
graze  those  stone  railings  worn  by  the  elbows  of 
many  a  lounger.  At  that  hour,  in  such  weather, 
loungers  were  few.  But  here  and  there  a  woman 
carrying  a  bundle  of  linen  rests  against  the  para- 
pet, or  some  poor  devil,  leaning  upon  his  elbows, 
hangs  over  the  water  with  an  air  of  weariness. 
And  the  man  as  he  passes  on  looks  about,  watch- 
ing them  curiously,  and  then  casts  a  glance  towards 
the  water  as  if  some  hidden  chain  of  thought  linked 
tin  se  people  with  the  river  itself. 

And  the  river  was  not  a  cheerful  sight  that  morn- 
ing. The  fog  rising  between  its  waves  seemed  to 
make  it  heavier.  The  dark  roofs  rising  above  its 
banks,  the  reflection  of  all  those  irregular  chimney- 
tops,  leaning  and  cutting  each  other  on  the  river's 
surface,  made  one  think  of  some  dismal  factory 
located  at  the  bottom  of  the  Seine,  and  sending  all 
its  smoke  aloft  to  Paris  in  fog.  But  our  worthy 
man  seems  to  find  nothing  sad  in  the  sight.  The 
moisture  penetrates  every  portion  of  his  body,  he 
has  not  a  dry  thread  of  clothing,  but  he  continues 
on  his  way  whistling,  a  happy  smile  upon  his  lips. 
Long   ago   he   became  accustomed  to  the   Seine 


A  Book-keeper.  201 

fogs.  And  then,  he  knows  that  when  he  reaches 
his  destination  he  will  find  his  pleasant  fur-lined 
foot-warmer,  a  roaring  stove  awaiting  him,  and  the 
warm  little  plate  in  which  he  makes  his  breakfast 
every  morning.  These  are  the  pleasures  of  an 
employ^,  such  are  the  only  joys  of  these  im- 
prisoned and  stunted  beings  whose  whole  lives  are 
passed  in  one  little  corner. 

"  I  must  not  forget  to  buy  some  apples,"  he  says 
to  himself  again  and  again,  and  whistling  he  hurries 
on.  You  never  saw  any  man  go  to  his  labor  more 
gayly. 

The  quays,  and  still  the  quays;  then  comes  a 
bridge,  and  now  he  has  passed  to  the  rear  of  Notre- 
Dame.  At  this  point  of  the  Island  the  fog  is 
thicker  than  ever.  It  rises  on  three  sides  at  once, 
partly  obscures  the  high  towers,  gathers  at  the 
corner  of  the  bridge,  as  if  there  were  something 
there  it  would  conceal.  The  man  pauses.  This  is 
the  place. 

Not  too  plainly  may  be  distinguished  sinister 
and  shadowy  figures,  squatting  upon  the  sidewalk, 
who  seem  to  await  something.  And  as  at  the 
railings  of  hospitals  and  squares,  here  also  may 
be  seen  flat  baskets  outspread  with  their  rows  of 
cakes,  oranges,  and  apples.  Oh  !  those  beautiful 
apples,  —  so  fresh,  so  rosy,  with  the  mist  upon 
them.  He  fills  his  pockets  with  them,  smiling 
at  the  vendor,  who  sits  shivering,  her  feet  upon 
her  foot-stove.  Then  he  opens  a  door  shrouded 
in  fog,  and  crosses  a  little  yard  where  a  cart  is 
standing  harnessed. 


202  Monday   Tales. 

"  Anything  for  us?"  he  asks  as  he  passes.  The 
wagoner  replies, — 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  something  pretty  this  time." 

He  enters  his  office  quickly.  How  comfortable 
and  warm  it  is  within !  In  a  corner  the  stove 
roars ;  his  foot-warmer  is  in  its  place ;  his  little 
arm-chair  awaits  him  in  the  brightest  part  of  the 
room,  by  the  window ;  the  fog  curtains  its  panes, 
making  a  subdued;  even  light,  and  big  books  with 
green  backs,  stand  in  a  methodical  row  upon  their 
rack.     A  genuine  notary's  cabinet. 

The  man  breathes  freely.     He  is  at  home. 

Before  setting  to  work  he  opens  a  great  closet, 
brings  out  his  lustrine  sleeves  which  he  puts  on 
carefully,  draws  forth  a  little,  red  earthen-ware 
plate  and  some  lumps  of  sugar,  which  came  from 
some  cafe,  and  begins  to  peel  his  apples,  gazing 
about  him  with  a  satisfied  air.  And  surely  it  would 
have  been  impossible  anywhere  to  find  a  cheer- 
fuller,  brighter  office,  or  one  more  orderly  in  every 
arrangement.  But  there  was  one  singular  thing, 
and  that  was  the  sound  of  water  which  one  could 
not  help  hearing  on  every  side  —  water  everywhere, 
enveloping  you  as  though  you  were  in  the  cabin 
of  a  ship.  Below  lay  the  Seine,  roaring,  dashing 
against  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  breaking  in  bil- 
lows of  foam  at  that  point  of  the  lie,  always  en- 
cumbered with  planks  and  piles  and  wreckage. 
And  even  within  and  around  the  office  there  was 
the  drip  !  drip  !  of  water  thrown  in  pitcherfuls,  the 
plash  of  water  washing  heavily  upon  something 
within.     Why,  I  know  not,  but  the  very  sound  of 


A  Book-keeper.  203 

that  water  made  one  shiver  just  to  hear  it.  One 
felt  that  it  fell  upon  a  hard  floor,  upon  great  slabs, 
upon  marble  tables  which  made  it  still  colder  than 
before. 

What,  then,  do  they  wash  again  and  again  in  this 
strange  house?     What  ineffaceable  stain  is  here? 

At  moments,  when  the  splashing  ceases  below, 
drops  are  heard  falling  one  by  one  as  after  a  thaw 
or  a  heavy  rain.  One  might  think  that  the  fog 
gathered  upon  roofs  and  walls  were  melting  from 
the  heat  of  the  stove,  and  trickling  ceaselessly. 

But  the  man  takes  no  notice  of  it.  He  is  com- 
pletely absorbed  in  his  apples,  which  begin  to  sing 
in  the  red  earthen-ware  plate,  exhaling  a  delicate 
perfume  of  caramel ;  and  that  delightful  song  pre- 
vents his  hearing  the  drip  of  the  water,  the  sinister 
drip  of  the  water. 

"Whenever  you  choose,  recorder,"  speaks  a 
husky  voice  from  a  side-room.  He  glances  at  his 
apples,  and  leaves  the  room  regretfully.  Where  is 
he  going?  Through  the  door  which  opens  for  a 
minute,  comes  a  chilly  and  unwholesome  breath, 
smelling  of  reeds  and  marshes,  and  there  is  seen 
what  seems  to  be  a  glimpse  of  clothes  drying  upon 
a  line,  faded  blouses,  smocks,  a  calico  robe  hang- 
ing at  full  length  by  the  sleeves,  and  dripping, 
dripping. 

That  part  disposed  of,  he  returns  to  his  office, 
and  places  upon  his  table  a  few  small  articles  soaked 
with  water ;  and,  chilled,  he  turns  towards  the  stove 
to  warm  his  hands,  which  are  red  with  cold. 

"  Any  one  must  be  crazy  to  choose  such  weather 


204  Monday   Tales. 

as  this,"  he  says  with  a  shiver ;  "  what  ails  them  all, 
I  wonder?" 

And  as  he  is  warm  again,  and  his  sugar  has 
begun  to  form  little  crystal  drops  around  his  plate, 
he  sits  down  to  eat  his  breakfast  upon  a  corner  of 
his  desk.  As  he  eats,  he  opens  one  of  his  registers, 
and  turns  its  leaves  complacently.  The  big  book 
is  so  well  kept! — ruled  lines,  entries  in  blue  ink, 
minute  reflections  of  gold  powder,  blotters  at  every 
page,  care  and  order  apparent  everywhere.  It 
seems  that  his  business  is  thriving,  for  the  worthy 
man's  face  wears  a  satisfied  air,  like  that  of  an  ac- 
countant after  an  annual  stock-taking  that  has 
turned  out  well.  And  while  he  turns  over  the 
pages  of  his  book  with  delight,  the  doors  of  the 
side-chamber  open,  the  sound  of  many  footsteps  is 
heard  upon  the  flagstones,  and  voices  saying  in  a 
half-whisper,  as  if  in  church,  — 

"  Oh  !  how  young  she  is  !     What  a  pity !  " 

And  they  elbow  and  push  forward,  whispering 
still. 

What  does  it  matter  to  him  that  she  is  young? 
Tranquilly  finishing  his  apples,  he  sets  before  him 
the  articles  he  brought  in  a  little  while  ago.  A 
thimble,  full  of  sand,  a  pocketbook  with  a  single 
sou  in  it,  a  little  pair  of  rusty  scissors,  so  rusty  that 
they  will  never  be  used  again,  oh !  never  again ; 
the  little  book  which  registers  her  as  working-girl 
—  its  leaves  glued  together ;  a  tattered  letter, 
almost  effaced,  of  which  may  be  deciphered  a  few 
words :  "  The  child  ...  no  money  ...  a  month's 
nursing  ..." 


A  Book-keeper.  205 

The  book-keeper  shrugs  his  shoulders  with  an 
air  that  seems  to  say,  — 

"  We  have  heard  that  before."  Then  he  takes 
his  pen,  brushes  away  carefully  the  crumbs  of 
bread  which  have  fallen  upon  his  ledger,  makes  a 
movement  preparatory  to  placing  his  fingers  in 
good  position,  and  in  his  best  hand  writes  the 
name  he  has  just  deciphered  upon  the  mouldy 
book. 

FUicie  Rameauy  burnisher :  age,  seventeen  years. 


2o6  Monday   Tales. 


"WITH    THE    THREE    HUNDRED    THOU- 
SAND  FRANCS   WHICH    GIRARDIN 
PROMISED   ME!" 

After  a  two  hours'  walk  in  Paris,  when  you 
had  left  home  with  light  tread,  and  gay-hearted, 
have  you  never  returned  out  of  sorts,  depressed  by 
a  sadness  for  which  you  could  ascribe  no  cause,  an 
incomprehensible  weariness?  You  ask  yourself 
what  ails  you,  but  seek  in  vain  for  an  answer  to  the 
question.  Your  walk  had  led  you  through  pleas- 
ant paths;  it  was  dry  underfoot,  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly,  and  yet  your  heart  is  touched  with 
a  pain  and  sorrow  that  linger  like  the  memory  of 
some  past  grief. 

For  in  this  mighty  Paris,  with  its  multitude  of 
people  who  feel  themselves  free  and  unobserved, 
it  is  impossible  to  take  a  step  without  jostling 
against  some  intrusive  misery  that  bespatters  the 
passer-by,  leaving  its  ineffaceable  mark.  I  am 
speaking  not  merely  of  those  misfortunes  with 
which  we  are  familiar,  in  which  we  are  interested, 
of  those  disappointments  of  some  friend,  which 
seem  in  some  slight  degree  our  disappointments 
also,  which  oppress  our  hearts  with  a  pang  almost 
of  remorse  when  we  encounter  them  suddenly; 
neither  do  I  speak  of  the  troubles  of  those   for 


Three  Hundred  Thousand  Francs,     207 

whom  we  feel  mere  indifference,  to  whom  we  listen 
with  one  ear  only,  scarcely  suspecting  that  we  are 
distressed  at  all ;  I  speak  of  those  sorrows  which 
are  quite  alien  to  our  lives,  of  which  we  catch  only  a 
passing,  momentary  glimpse  while  rambling  about 
through  the  crowded  streets. 

Fragments  of  dialogues  are  heard,  interrupted 
by  the  noise  of  vehicles ;  some  of  these  wayfarers 
are  preoccupied,  deaf,  and  dumb ;  they  soliloquize 
loudly,  with  wild  gestures ;  their  eyes  glitter  fever- 
ishly, and  their  shoulders  droop  from  weariness. 
Others  there  are  whose  pale  faces  are  swollen  with 
weeping,  black-veiled  mourners  whose  recent  tears 
are  scarcely  dried.  And  then  those  trivial  details 
which  seem  to  elude  notice !  That  figure  whose 
well-worn  coat,  shiny  from  frequent  brushings, 
shuns  the  bright  daylight ;  another  seated  beneath 
a  porch  turning  a  barrel-organ  that  has  lost  its 
notes ;  a  hunchback  who  wears  about  her  neck  a 
velvet  ribbon,  stiffly  tied  between  her  misshapen 
shoulders.  You  sight  these  unfortunates,  strangers 
to  you,  merely  for  a  moment,  and  forget  them  as 
you  pass  on,  but  they  have  brushed  against  you, 
you  have  felt  some  passing  contact  with  their 
wretchedness,  your  very  garments  are  impregnated 
with  the  weariness  that  follows  in  their  footsteps, 
and  at  the  day's  end,  you  feel  a  restlessness,  a  sense 
of  depression;  for  at  some  street-corner,  at  the 
threshold  of  some  home,  unconsciously  you  have 
touched  the  invisible  thread  that  binds  so  closely 
the  existence  of  all  these  wretched  ones  that  the 
least  shock  to  one  is  felt  by  all. 


208  Monday  Tales, 

I  was  thinking  of  this  the  other  morning,  for  it 
is  especially  during  the  morning  that  the  misery  of 
Paris  may  be  seen  at  its  worst.  I  saw,  walking  in 
front  of  me,  a  poor  lean  devil  in  a  coat  much  too 
small  for  him,  which  seemed  to  make  his  long  legs 
still  longer,  and  to  exaggerate  tremendously  all  his 
gestures.  He  was  walking  very  fast,  bent  almost 
double,  swaying  like  a  tree  tossed  by  the  wind. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  put  his  hand  in  one  of 
his  back  pockets  and  break  off  a  bit  of  a  small 
roll  concealed  there,  devouring  it  furtively,  as  if 
ashamed  to  eat  in  the  street. 

When  I  see  masons  seated  upon  the  sidewalks, 
nibbling  the  heart  of  a  fine  fresh  loaf,  it  gives  me 
an  appetite.  I  envy  too,  each  humble  clerk  rush- 
ing back  from  the  bake-shop  to  his  work,  pen 
behind  his  ear,  and  his  mouth  full,  quite  exhila- 
rated by  this  meal  in  the  open  air.  But  this  man 
wore  the  shamefaced  air  of  one  who  knows  what 
real  hunger  means,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see  this 
unfortunate  afraid  to  eat  more  than  the  tiniest 
morsels  of  the  bread  he  was  crumbling  within  his 
pocket.  I  followed  him  for  a  moment,  but  sud- 
denly, brusquely,  as  frequently  happens  with  these 
dazed  beings,  the  trend  of  his  thought  was 
changed,  and  turning  around,  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  me. 

"  Holloa,  is  it  you  ?  "  I  chanced  to  recognize 
him  as  an  acquaintance,  one  of  those  fomenters  of 
schemes  that  spring  up  in  innumerable  numbers 
from  the  very  pavement  of  Paris,  an  inventor,  a 
founder  of  impossible  journals,  which  for  a  space 


Three  Hundred  Thousand  Francs.     209 

make  no  end  of  talk  in  print,  and  are  advertised  on 
every  side.  Three  months  ago  he  had  disappeared 
in  a  formidable  plunge.  After  a  few  days'  bubbling 
of  the  waters  where  he  fell,  the  surface  of  the  tide 
was  as  smooth  as  ever,  the  waters  closed  again,  and 
no  one  thought  further  about  him.  He  was  dis- 
turbed at  seeing  me,  and  in  order  to  cut  short  all 
questioning,  and  doubtless  also  to  divert  attention 
from  his  sordid  appearance,  his  half-pennyworth 
of  bread,  he  began  to  talk  very  rapidly,  in  a  tone 
of  assumed  gayety.  His  affairs  were  progressing 
finely,  finely !  A  little  at  a  standstill  just  at  pres- 
ent, but  this  would  not  be  for  long.  At  this  very 
moment  he  was  considering  a  magnificent  under- 
taking, nothing  less  than  a  great  industrial  journal, 
illustrated !  Much  money  in  it,  and  a  splendid 
contract,  superb  advertising  !  His  face  grew  more 
and  more  animated  as  he  talked.  His  figure 
straightened  itself.  By  degrees,  he  began  to  as- 
sume a  protecting  tone,  as  though  he  fancied  him- 
self already  seated  at  his  editor's-desk.  He  even 
asked  me  to  furnish  some  articles,  adding  in  a  tri- 
umphant voice,  — 

"  And  you  know,  it 's  an  assured  thing ;  I  shall 
begin  with  the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  that 
Girardin  has  promised  me  !  " 

Girardin  ! 

That  is  the  name  forever  upon  the  tongue  of  all 
these  visionaries.  When  I  hear  it  pronounced,  I 
seem  to  see  new  quarters,  huge  buildings  never 
completed,  journals  just  fresh  from  print,  with  lists 
of  subscribers  and  directors.     How  often   I  have 


2 1  o  Monday   Tales, 

heard  it  said  of  some  senseless  project,  "  We  must 
speak  about  that  to  Girardin !  " 

And  in  this  poor  devil's  brain  also  had  come  the 
idea  that  he  must  mention  his  scheme  to  Girardin ! 
All  night  long  he  had  been  preparing  his  plan, 
figuring  upon  it.  Then  he  had  started  out,  and  as 
he  went  on,  to  his  excited  fancy  it  had  all  looked 
so  fine  that  at  the  moment  of  our  encounter  it 
seemed  absolutely  impossible  to  him  that  Girardin 
could  think  of  refusing  that  three  hundred  thous- 
and francs.  And  in  stating  that  they  had  been 
promised  to  him  the  poor  wretch  told  no  false- 
hood, for  his  words  were  merely  the  continuation 
of  his  dream. 

While  he  was  talking,  we  were  jostled  and  pushed 
against  a, wall..  We  stood  upon  the  sidewalk  of 
one  of  those  bustling  streets  leading  to  the  Bourse 
and  the  Bank;  it  was  filled  with  people  rushing 
on  distractedly  and  absorbed  in  their  own  affairs, 
anxious  shop-keepers  in  haste  to  pay  their  notes, 
petty  speculators,  with  coarse  faces,  hurling  quota- 
tions in  each  other's  ears  as  they  passed  by.  And 
listening  to  all  these  fine  projects  in  the  midst  of 
that  crowd,  in  that  quarter  where  speculation  runs 
riot,  where  all  these  players  of  the  game  of  chance 
impart  their  feverish  haste  to  every  one,  I  shud- 
dered as  one  might  to  hear  the  tale  of  some  ship- 
wreck recited  in  mid-ocean.  For  I  saw  all  that 
this  man  was  telling  me  actually  written  upon  the 
faces  of  those  about  us ;  all  his  catastrophes,  all  his 
radiant  hopes  could  be  read  in  their  wild,  dazed 
eyes.     He  left  me  as  suddenly  as  he  had  accosted 


Three  Hundred  Thousand  Francs.     2 1 1 

me,  and  plunged  headlong  into  that  whirl  of  folly 
and  illusions  and  lying  hopes,  all  that  which  men 
of  this  sort  refer  to  in  a  serious  tone  as  "  affairs." 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes  I  had  forgotten  him, 
but  at  night  after  I  had  returned  home,  when  I  had 
dispelled  the  memory  of  all  the  sad  sights  of  the 
day  in  shaking  the  dust  of  the  streets  off  my  feet, 
I  seemed  to  see  again  that  wan,  worried  face  of  the 
man  with  his  morsel  of  bread,  seemed  to  see  the 
gesture  that  emphasized  those  pompous  words, 
"  With  the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  which 
Girardin  has  promised  me  1  " 


2 1 2  Monday   Tales. 


ARTHUR. 

Some  years  ago  I  occupied  a  tiny  box  of  a  house 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  in  the  Passage  des  Douze- 
Maisons.  Picture  to  yourself  an  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  that  faubourg,  nestling  in  the  midst  of 
those  great,  aristocratic  avenues,  so  cold, -so  tran- 
quil, along  which  it  seems  that  no  one  ever  passes 
except  in  an  equipage.  Whether  the  caprice  of 
their  owner  was  some  insane  freak  of  avarice  or  a 
mania  for  old  things,  I  do  not  know,  but  there  in 
the  midst  of  this  beautiful  quarter,  he  had  allowed 
those  waste  spaces  to  remain,  with  little  mouldy 
gardens,  low  houses  crookedly  built,  the  staircase 
on  the  outside,  and  wooden  terraces  covered  with 
linen  spread  to  dry,  rabbit-cages  here  and  there, 
lean  cats,  and  famished  tame  crows.  Here  also 
had  installed  themselves  mechanics,  petty  pension- 
ers, some  few  artists  —  the  latter  always  to  be 
found  where  trees  are  left  —  and  in  addition  to  all 
this,  there  were  two  or  three  lodging-houses  of 
sordid  aspect,  which  looked  as  if  begrimed  with 
the  poverty  of  generations.  All  around  was  the 
stir  and  splendor  of  the  Champs  filys^es,  an  inces- 
sant rumbling,  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  and 
the  sound  of  portes-cochtres  opening  heavily ;  ba- 
rouches roll  by,  shaking  the  portals  as  they  pass, 


Arthur,  213 

the  muffled  sound  of  pianos  and  the  violins  of 
Mabille  Garden  are  heard ;  outlined  against  the 
horizon  stand  great,  silent  houses,  with  swelling 
fronts,  their  windows  shaded  with  light,  silken  cur- 
tains, while  behind  the  tall  panes  of  spotless  glass 
gleam  golden  candelabra  and  jardinieres  filled 
with  rare  flowers. 

To  enter  that  dark  passage-way  of  the  Douze- 
Maisons,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  the  neighborhood,  and  lighted  at  one 
end  by  a  single  street-lamp,  seemed  like  stepping 
behind  the  scenes  in  a  theatre.  The  spangles  that 
decorated  all  this  luxury  found  a  refuge  there : 
liveried  lace,  the  clown's  tights,  a  vagabond  world 
of  circus-riders,  English  ostlers,  two  tiny  postilions 
of  the  Hippodrome,  with  their  twin  ponies  and 
advertising  -  placards ;  goat-carts,  punchinellos, 
wafer-sellers,  and  a  whole  tribe  of  blind  men  re- 
turned at  evening,  loaded  with  camp-stools,  accor- 
dions, and  bowls.  One  of  these  blind  men  was 
married  while  I  lived  in  the  passage,  and  the  event 
was  the  occasion  of  a  concert  which  lasted  all  night 
long ;  a  fantastic  concert  where  clarionets,  hautboys, 
hand-organs,  and  accordions  mingled,  while  that 
procession  paraded  the  various  bridges  of  Paris,  to 
the  droning  sound  of  their  various  instruments. 
But  ordinarily  the  passage  was  very  quiet.  These 
nomads  of  the  street  never  returned  till  dusk,  and 
then  they  were  tired  enough.  There  was  rarely  a 
racket  except  on  Saturday,  when  Arthur  received 
his  week's  pay. 

Arthur  was  my   neighbor.     A   tiny  wall,   pro- 


2 1 4  Monday   Tales. 

longed  by  a  trellis,  separated  my  pavilion  from  the 
lodging-house  in  which  he  dwelt  with  his  wife,  and 
so,  in  spite  of  myself,  his  life  and  mine  came  in 
contact  for  a  time,  and  every  Saturday  I  was  com- 
pelled, without  losing  a  single  word  of  it  all,  to  lis- 
ten to  the  horrible  drama  so  often  enacted  in  the 
homes  of  mechanics  of  this  sort,  a  drama  so  Paris- 
ian in  its  details.  It  always  began  the  same  way. 
The  wife  would  prepare  dinner,  the  children  gath- 
ering about  her.  She  talked  to  them  in  a  gentle 
voice,  and  was  very  busy.  Seven  o'clock,  eight 
o'clock,  and  no  one  came.  As  the  hours  passed 
her  voice  changed  in  tone,  became  nervous  and 
tearful.  The  children  grew  hungry  and  sleepy, 
and  began  to  whine.  But  the  husband  did  not 
return.  They  ate  without  him.  Then,  the  little 
brood  in  bed,  the  children  asleep,  she  would  ap- 
pear upon  the  wooden  balcony,  and  I  could  hear 
her  whisper  between  her  sobs,  "  Oh,  the  blackguard, 
the  blackguard  !  " 

Neighbors  would  find  her  there,  and  try  to 
sympathize. 

"  Come,  come,  go  to  bed,  Madame  Arthur.  You 
know  he  '11  not  be  home  to-night.     It 's  pay-day." 

Then  advice  and  gossip  would  follow. 

"  I  know  what  I  'd  do  if  I  were  in  your  place. 
Speak  to  his  employer  about  it.  Why  don't 
you?  " 

All  this  talk  merely  made  her  weep  the  more, 
but  she  persisted  in  hoping  and  waiting ;  and,  com- 
pletely worn  out,  after  every  door  was  shut  and  the 
passage    silent    she    would    remain    there    leaning 


Arthur.  215 

upon  her  elbow,  believing  herself  quite  alone; 
absorbed  by  a  single,  fixed  idea,  she  would  repeat  to 
herself  quite  loudly  the  story  of  all  her  misfortunes, 
with  the  abandon  of  one  who  has  lived  half  her  life 
in  the  streets.  They  were  behindhand  with  their 
rent,  every  tradesman  harassed  them,  the  baker 
refused  them  bread,  —  and  what  would  she  do  if 
her  husband  returned  again  without  money?  At 
last  she  was  too  weary  to  do  more  than  count  the 
hours  and  watch  belated  passers-by.  She  would 
re-enter,  but  long  afterwards,  when  I  thought  all 
was  over,  I  would  hear  a  cough  quite  close  to  me 
upon  the  balcony.  The  poor  woman  was  there 
again.  Her  restlessness  would  not  permit  her  to 
remain  within.  She  peered  into  the  dark  street, 
ruining  her  eyes,  and  seeing  nothing  but  her  own 
wretchedness. 

Towards  one  or  two  o'clock,  and  sometimes 
much  later,  some  one  would  be  heard  singing  at 
the  end  of  the  lane.  Arthur  was  returning.  More 
frequently  than  not  he  would  come  dragging  a 
boon-companion  along  with  him  to  the  very  door, 
insisting,  "  Come  in,  come  in."  And  even  at  the 
door  he  loitered,  unable  to  decide  whether  or  not 
he  would  enter,  for  he  knew  well  what  awaited 
him  within.  As  he  climbed  the  stairs  the  heavy 
sound  of  his  footsteps  echoed  through  the  silence 
of  the  slumbering  house,  and  filled  him  with  an 
uneasy  sensation,  not  unlike  remorse.  He  talked 
aloud,  pausing  before  each  hovel  to  remark,  "  Good 
evening,  Ma'me  Weber;  good-evening,  Ma'me 
Mathieu."     If  no  one  answered,  he  burst  forth  with 


2 1 6  Monday  Tales. 

a  volley  of  abuse,  and  all  the  windows  opened  to 
return  his  maledictions.  That  was  what  he  wished. 
In  his  drunken  state  he  loved  brawling  and  noise ; 
and  all  this  warmed  him  so  that  he  became  quite 
angry,  less  afraid  to  enter,  when  he  reached  his 
own  quarters. 

For  that  moment  of  entering  was  a  terrible  one. 

"  Open  :   it  is  I." 

Then  I  would  hear  the  woman's  bare  feet  upon 
the  floor,  the  striking  of  matches,  and  the  story  the 
man  attempted  to  tell  her  as  he  entered ;  it  was 
always  the  same :  his  comrades  had  led  him  away. 
"  What  's-his-name  —  you  know  whom  I  mean  — 
he  works  on  the  railroad  —    Well !  he  —  " 

The  wife  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  this. 

"  And  your  money?  " 

"  There  is  none  left,"  Arthur's  voice  would  reply. 

"  You  lie  !  " 

And  he  did.  No  matter  how  deeply  under  the 
influence  of  liquor,  he  always  left  a  few  sous  un- 
spent, anticipating  the  return  of  his  thirst  on  Mon- 
day. And  it  was  this  small  remnant  of  his  week's 
earnings  that  she  tried  to  wrest  from  him.  Arthur 
struggled,  disputed  the  point. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  drank  it  all?"  he  would 
cry.  Without  response  she  would  descend  upon 
him  with  all  the  strength  her  indignation  and  over- 
strung nerves  had  gathered.  She  shook  him,  ran- 
sacked, turned  his  pockets  inside  out.  In  a  few 
moments  the  sound  of  money  rolling  upon  the 
ground  would  be  heard ;  the  woman  would  grasp 
it  eagerly  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 


Arthur,  217 

"  There  !  you  see  now !  " 

Then  followed  an  oath,  the  sound  of  blows 
descending  heavily ;  the  drunkard  was  taking  his 
revenge.  Once  he  had  set  out  to  beat  her,  he  never 
paused.  All  that  was  vilest,  most  pernicious  in 
these  dreadful  pothouse  wines  mounted  to  his 
brain,  and  those  fumes  must  work  off  their  effects 
in  some  way.  The  woman  howled,  the  last  bits  of 
furniture  in  their  hovel  were  smashed  to  pieces,  the 
children,  startled  from  their  sleep,  cried  with  fright, 
and  all  along  the  passage  windows  opened,  and 
listeners  remarked,  — 

"  It  is  Arthur  !  It  is  Arthur  !  "  Sometimes  the 
father-in-law,  an  old  rag-picker  who  lived  in  the 
neighboring  lodging-house,  would  come  to  his 
daughter's  rescue.  But  Arthur  would  lock  the 
door  that  he  need  not  be  disturbed  in  his  task. 
Then,  through  the  locked  door,  a  frightful  dialogue 
would  ensue  between  father  and  son-in-law,  and  we 
would  catch  charming  fragments  such  as  these : 

"  Your  two  years  in  prison  were  not  enough  for 
you,  you  scoundrel !  "  the  old  man  would  exclaim. 
And  the  drunkard  would  reply  in  a  superb  tone : 

"  Well !  —  I  did  spend  two  years  in  prison  ! 
What  of  that?  At  least  I  have  paid  my  debt  to 
society  !     Try  to  pay  your  own." 

It  seemed  a  very  simple  matter  to  him :  "  I  stole 
—  you  put  me  in  prison.     We  are  quits." 

However,  when  the  old  man  was  too  persistent 
Arthur  would  grow  impatient,  open  his  door,  and 
fall  upon  father-in-law,  mother-in-law,  and  neigh- 
bors, and  like  Punchinello  fight  the  whole  world. 


2 1 8  Monday   Tales. 

And  yet  he  was  .not  badly  disposed.  Many  a 
Sabbath,  on  the  day  after  one  of  these  murderous 
assaults,  this  pacified  drunkard,  with  not  a  sou  left 
for  a  drink,  would  pass  the  day  at  home.  Chairs 
were  brought  forth  from  various  rooms.  Ma'me 
Weber,  Ma'me  Mathieu,  and  indeed  all  the  lodging- 
house,  would  install  themselves  upon  the  balcony 
and  converse.  Arthur  played  the  agreeable,  was 
the  leading  spirit ;  you  would  have  taken  him  for 
one  of  those  model  mechanics  who  are  constant 
attendants  at  evening-school.  He  assumed  for  the 
occasion  a  lamb-like,  mild  voice,  declaimed  frag- 
ments of  ideas  gathered  a  little  from  every  source, 
thoughts  concerning  the  rights  of  the  working- 
man,  the  tyranny  of  capital.  His  poor  wife,  some- 
what subdued  from  the  effects  of  the  beating 
received  the  night  before,  regarded  him  admiringly ; 
nor  was  she  his  only  admirer. 

"  Ah,  that  man,  Arthur !  if  he  only  would  !  " 
Ma'me  Weber  often  murmured  with  a  sigh.  To 
add  the  finishing  touch,  these  ladies  would  ask 
him  to  sing.  And  he  would  sing  that  song  of  M. 
de  Belanger,  "  The  Swallows."  Oh  !  that  throaty 
voice,  full  of  artificial  tears,  the  working-man's 
inane  sentimentality !  Beneath  the  tarred-paper, 
mouldy  veranda,  old  clothes  were  spread  out  in 
every  direction,  but  between  the  lines  a  glimpse  of 
the  blue  sky  was  seen,  and  all  that  vulgar  crowd, 
charmed  with  the  unreality  of  his  attitudinizing, 
rolled  their  moistened  eyes  heavenward. 

But  all  this  did  not  hinder  Arthur  from  spending 
his  week's  pay  for  drink  on  the  following  Saturday 


k 


2  20  Monday   Tales. 


THE  THIRD   READING. 

As  true  as  my  name  is  B61isaire,  and  I  have  my 
plane  in  my  hand  at  this  moment,  if  Papa  Thiers 
imagines  that  the  fine  lesson  he  has  taught  us  will 
be  of  the  slightest  use  to  us,  it  is  because  he  does  n't 
know  the  people  of  Paris.  You  see,  monsieur, 
they  may  shoot  us  wholesale,  transport  us,  export 
us,  add  Cayenne  to  Satory,  and  pack  the  prison- 
ships  as  close  as  sardines  in  a  barrel,  but  the  true 
Parisian  loves  a  riot,  and  nothing  can  destroy  that 
taste  of  his.  We  have  it  in  our  blood.  What 
would  you?  It  isn't  politics  so  much  that  amuses 
us,  but  the  noise  it  makes,  the  closed  workshops, 
the  gatherings,  the  lounging  here  and  there ;  yes, 
and  there's  another  thing  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
explain  to  you. 

To  understand  it,  one  should  have  been  born 
where  I  was  born,  Rue  de  l'Orillon,  in  a  carpen- 
ter's work-shop,  should  have  served  an  apprentice- 
ship from  the  time  he  was  eight  until  he  was  fifteen 
years  old,  trundling  a  hand-barrow  filled  with  chips 
along  the  faubourg.  Ah  !  well !  I  can  truly  say  I 
had  my  fill  of  revolutions  in  those  days.  Little 
though  I  was  then,  standing  no  higher  than  these 
boots  of  mine,  —  there  was  nothing  lively  astir  in 
Paris  but  I  was  sure  to  be  found  on  the  spot.    And 


The   Third  Reading*  221 

generally  I  knew  in  advance  what  was  afoot. 
When  I  saw  workmen  walking  arm  in  arm  through 
the  faubourg,  taking  up  the  entire  sidewalk,  while 
women  stood  at  their  doorways,  chattering,  gesticu- 
lating, and  a  great  mob  of  people  issued  from  the 
barrieres,  I  said  to  myself  as  I  wheeled  on  my  chips, 
"  We  are  in  for  it  now !  Good  enough !  some- 
thing 's   up!" 

And  in  fact  there  always  was.  Going  home  of 
an  evening,  I  would  enter  the  shop,  and  find  it  full 
of  people ;  friends  of  my  father's  were  discussing 
politics  around  his  bench;  some  neighbors  had 
brought  him  in  the  newspaper,  for  in  those  days 
you  could  not  buy  one  for  a  sou,  as  at  present. 
Those  in  the  same  house  who  wished  to  take  it 
clubbed  together,  a  number  of  them,  and  passed  it 
round  from  story  to  story.  Papa  Belisaire,  who 
was  never  idle  no  matter  what  happened,  kept  his 
plane  angrily  at  work  as  he  listened  to  the  latest 
news,  and  I  remember,  too,  that  on  such  days  as 
those  the  moment  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  table 
the  mother  never  failed  to  say  to  us,  — 

"  Keep  quiet,  children,  your  father  is  out  of 
sorts  on  account  of  political  affairs." 

You  may  well  believe  I  did  not  understand  very 
much  of  their  cursed  politics.  All  the  same  there 
were  a  few  words  that  would  force  themselves  into 
my  head  through  hearing  them  so  often,  as  for  in- 
stance, — 

"  That  rascally  Guizot,  who  has  gone  to  Gand  — " 

I  did  n't  understand  very  clearly  who  that  Guizot 
was,  nor  what  going  "  to  Gand  "  might  mean,  but 


222  Monday  Tales, 

what  odds !     I  repeated  again  and  again  with  the 
others,  — 

"  Canaille  de  Guizot !  canaille  de  Guizot !  " 
And  I  was  all  the  more  pleased  to  refer  to  that 
poor  Monsieur  Guizot  as  "  canaille"  on  account  of. 
the  fact  that  in  my  mind  I  had  confounded  him 
with  a  big  scoundrel  of  a  policeman  who  was  on 
duty  at  the  Rue  de  l'Orillon,  and  made  my  life 
miserable  for  me  on  account  of  my  barrow  of  chips. 
There  was  no  love  lost  between  the  quarter  and 
that  big,  red-faced  fellow.  Children,  dogs,  every 
one  was  at  his  heels ;  there  was,  however,  a  wine- 
seller  who  used  to  try  to  gain  him  over  by  slipping 
a  glass  of  wine  to  him  through  a  small  opening  in 
his  shop.  The  big  red  face  would  come  nearer 
and  nearer,  with  an  innocent  air,  and  glance  from 
right  to  left  to  see  that  none  of  his  superiors  were 
about,  then,  as  he  passed  —  whew  !  I  've  never 
seen  any  one  else  toss  down  a  glass  of  wine  as 
quickly  as  he  did  !  Sly  fellow  !  one  had  only  to  lie 
in  wait  for  the  moment  when  his  elbow  was  raised 
to  his  mouth,  steal  behind  him,  and  cry  out, — 
"  Look  out !  sergo!  The  officer  's  coming." 
The  people  of  Paris  are  all  just  like  that.  The 
policeman  bears  the  brunt  of  everything.  For 
every  one  is  accustomed  to  hate  these  poor  devils, 
to  regard  them  as  curs.  If  the  ministry  commit 
follies,  the  police  pay  the  penalty,  and  once  a 
glorious  revolution  is  in  progress,  the  ministry  de- 
part for  Versailles,  the  policemen  are  thrown  into 
the  canal. 

But   to   return    to   what    I   was   telling  you.— 


The   Third  Reading.  223 

whenever  there  was  anything  of  importance  going 
on  in  Paris,  I  was  one  of  the  first  to  know  it.  On 
those  days  all  the  small  fry  of  the  quarter  would 
hold  their  meetings  too,  and  together  we  would  go 
down  the  faubourg.  We  could  hear  people  ex- 
claiming, "  It  is  at  Rue  Montmartre  !  no  —  at  Porte 
Saint-Denis."  Others,  whose  business  took  them 
in  that  direction,  would  return,  furious,  because 
they  had  been  unable  to  pass.  Women  were  seen 
running  towards  the  bakers'  shops.  Carriage  en- 
trances were  closed.  All  this  excitement  went  to 
our  heads.  We  sang  as  we  passed  by,  we  jostled 
the  little  street  vendors,  who  were  quickly  gather- 
ing up  their  goods  and  their  baskets,  as  if  it  were 
some  terribly  stormy  day.  Sometimes  when  we 
reached  the  canal  the  bridges  of  the  locks  were 
already  turned.  Fiacres  and  trucks  were  com- 
pelled to  wait  there.  Cabmen  were  cursing,  and 
every  one  was  uneasy.  On  the  run  we  would  scale 
the  steps  of  the  foot-bridge  which  at  that  time 
separated  the  faubourg  from  the  Rue  du  Temple, 
and  then  we  reached  the  boulevards. 

Oh !  what  fun  upon  the  boulevard  on  the  day 
of  mardi  gras  or  on  the  day  of  a  riot!  Scarcely  a 
carriage  to  be  seen.  One  could  rush  along  at  his 
ease  upon  the  driveway.  When  they  saw  us  pass, 
the  shopkeepers  of  every  quarter  knew  well  what 
it  meant,  and  closed  their  shops  quickly.  We 
heard  the  clatter  of  shutters,  but  once  their  stores 
were  closed  these  people  would  occupy  the  side- 
walk in  front  of  their  doors,  for  with  the  Parisian 
no  feeling  is  stronger  than  that  of  curiosity. 


224  Monday  Tales. 

At  last  we  would  perceive  a  black  mass,  the  mo\> 
itself,  obstructing  all  travel.  There  it  was!  But 
to  see  it  properly  one  must  stand  in  the  first  row; 
and  I  can  tell  you,  one  was  well  thumped  before 
he  got  there.  However,  by  dint  of  shoving,  jost- 
ling, sliding  between  the  legs  of  others,  we  at  last 
got  where  we  wanted  to  be.  Once  we  had  taken 
our  places  in  front  of  everybody,  we  breathed  more 
freely,  and  were  proud  enough.  And  indeed  the 
spectacle  was  worth  all  the  trouble  of  getting  there. 
No,  believe  me,  neither  Monsieur  Bocage  nor 
Monsieur  Melingue  ever  gave  me  such  a  flutter 
of  the  heart  as  that  I  felt  when,  looking  ahead, 
in  an  open  space  at  the  end  of  the  street  I  saw 
the  chief  of  police  advancing,  decorated  with  his 
sash. 

I  heard  the  others  exclaim,  "  The  commissaire  ! 
the  commissaire  !  " 

But  I  said  nothing.  My  teeth  were  tightly  closed 
through  pleasure  and  terror  combined ;  what  I 
felt  was  indescribable.     I  thought  to  myself,  — 

"  The  commissaire  has  come  !  Now  look  out  for 
blows  from  his  club." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  blows  from  his  club  that 
impressed  me  as  that  big  devil  of  a  man  himself, 
with  his  sash  upon  his  black  swallow-tail  coat  and 
that  huge  hat  de  monsieur  he  wore,  which  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  being  out  visiting,  as  it 
rose  in  the  midst  of  all  those  shakos  and  cocked 
hats.  That  made  a  tremendous  impression  upon 
me.  After  a  flourish  from  the  drum,  the  chief  of 
police  began  to  mumble  something.     He  was  so 


The  Third  Reading.  225 

far  from  us  that  in  spite  of  the  intense  silence  his 
voice  was  lost  in  air,  and  all  we  could  hear  was  — 

"  Mn  —  mn  —  mn  —  " 

But  we  were  as  thoroughly  posted  as  himself 
about  the  riot  laws.  We  knew  that  we  were  en- 
titled to  three  readings  of  the  Riot  Act  before  his 
stick  could  whack  us.  At  the  first  reading  no  one 
budged  an  inch.  We  stood  there  undisturbed,  our 
hands  in  our  pockets.  It  is  true  that  when  the 
drum  beat  the  second  time  some  began  to  grow 
green,  and  to  look  right  and  left,  to  see  which  way- 
he  would  pass.  When  the  third  time  came,  p-r-r-t  / 
It  was  like  the  flight  of  a  flock  of  partridges.  There 
were  howls,  cat-cries;  aprons,  caps,  and  hats  be- 
gan to  disappear,  while  behind  them  clubs  pro- 
ceeded to  belabor  on  every  side.  Ah  !  no  !  there 
is  no  play  on  the  stage  that  could  ever  give  you 
such  emotions  as  those.  It  was  food  for  seven 
days'  talk,  when  we  related  all  this  to  the  others 
who  had  not  seen  it ;  and  how  proud  they  were  who 
could  say, — 

"  I  heard  the  third  reading !  " 

It  must  be  said,  however,  that  for  the  sake  of 
the  fun  one  often  risked  losing  some  of  his  hide. 
Just  imagine  !  One  day  —  it  was  at  Pointe  Saint- 
Eustache  —  I  don't  know  how  the  commissaire 
had  reckoned,  but  no  sooner  was  the  second  read- 
ing disposed  of  than  the  constables  set  to  work, 
clubs  in  the  air.  I  did  not  remain  in  waiting  for 
them  very  long,  you  may  believe.  But  all  in  vain 
I  stretched  my  small  legs  to  the  utmost ;  one  of 
those  big  devils  fell  upon  me,  and  went  for  me  at 


226  Monday  Tales. 

such  very  short  notice  that  after  I  had  felt  his 
stick  whiz  about  me  two  or  three  times,  he  ended 
by  giving  it  to  me  straight  upon  the  head.  Lord ! 
what  a  whack !  I  had  never  seen  so  many  stars  in 
my  life  before.  They  brought  me  home  with  a 
broken  head.  But  if  you  think  that  made  me 
mend  my  ways  —  ah  well !  hardly ;  all  the  time 
poor  Mamma  Belisaire  was  making  compresses  for 
me,  I  never  once  ceased  exclaiming,  — 

"  It  isn't  my  fault.  It  is  that  rascally  commis- 
saire,  who  played  a  trick  upon  all  of  us.  He  read 
the  Riot  Act  only  twice  ! " 


A  First- Night  Performance.        227 


A  FIRST-NIGHT   PERFORMANCE. 
IMPRESSIONS    OF   THE   AUTHOR. 

It  was  to  begin  at  eight.  In  five  minutes  the 
curtain  would  rise.  Stage-carpenters,  manager, 
and  property-man,  every  one  was  at  his  post.  The 
actors  in  the  first  scene  had  placed  themselves,  and 
taken  appropriate  attitudes.  I  peeped  for  one  last 
time  through  the  gap  of  the  curtain.  The  house 
was  crowded,  —  fifteen  hundred  heads,  one  row 
rising  above  another ;  the  lights  fell  upon  a  smiling 
and  animated  audience.  I  recognized  a  few  faces 
in  it,  but  only  vaguely ;  their  physiognomies  seemed 
to  me  quite  changed.  Their  faces  wore  a  quizzical 
expression,  their  manner  was  arrogant,  dogmatic, 
and  already  I  could  see  lorgnettes  aimed  in  my  di- 
rection like  pistols.  In  one  part  of  the  house  I  did 
discern  a  few  dear  faces,  grown  pale  with  anxiety 
and  expectation ;  but  how  many  were  purely  in- 
different, and  even  unfavorably  disposed  ! 

And  all  that  these  people  brought  with  them 
from  the  outer  world,  all  their  recklessness,  preoc- 
cupation, listlessness,  and  mistrust,  must  be  dis- 
pelled ;  that  atmosphere  of  ennui  and  disaffection 
must  be  penetrated, — a  common  idea  move  all  these 
human  beings ;  my  drama,  to  live,  must  draw  its  in- 
spiration from  those  inexorable  eyes.    I  would  have 


228  Monday   Tales. 

delayed,  prevented  the  curtain  from  rising,  but  no ! 
it  is  too  late  now.  I  hear  the  three  taps  of  the 
stick,  a  prelude  from  the  orchestra,  and  then  there 
is  a  deep  silence.  From  the  wings  comes  a  voice 
which  sounds  hollow  and  far  away,  lost  in  the  im- 
mensity of  the  house.  My  play  has  begun.  Ah, 
wretched  one  !   what  have  I  done  ? 

An  awful  moment !  I  know  not  where  to  turn, 
or  what  will  become  of  me.  Should  one  remain 
there,  leaning  against  a  gas-wing,  ears  strained  to 
hear,  and  heart  refusing  to  beat?  —  encourage  the 
actors  when  he  so  greatly  needs  some  encourage- 
ment himself  ?  —  talk,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  is 
saying,  and  smile  when  the  dazed  look  in  his  eyes 
betrays  that  his  thought  is  far  away?  Confound  it 
all,  I  would  rather  slip  into  the  house  somewhere, 
and  stand  face  to  face  with  danger ! 

Concealed  in  a  box  in  the  pit,  I  try  to  seem  an 
indifferent  spectator,  quite  apart  from  it  all,  and  as 
if  I  had  not  seen  the  dust  of  those  boards  clinging 
to  my  play  for  the  past  two  months,  as  if  I  myself 
had  not  decided  upon  every  gesture,  every  least 
detail  of  the  mounting  of  the  piece,  from  the  mech- 
anism of  entrances  and  exits  even  to  the  turning  up 
of  the  gas.  A  singular  feeling  possesses  me.  I 
wish  to  listen,  and  yet  cannot.  I  am  uneasy,  com- 
pletely upset.  I  hear  the  quick  turning  of  keys  in 
the  box-doors,  the  moving  of  stools,  fits  of  con- 
tagious coughing,  one  voice  answering  another,  — 
whispered  conversations  behind  fans,  the  rustling 
of  gowns,  a  multitude  of  insignificant  sounds  that 
seem  of  enormous  dimensions  to  me;  gestures  and 


A  First-Night  Performance.        229 

attitudes  that  seem  to  show  hostility,  backs  that 
appear  to  wear  a  discontented  air,  and  sprawling 
elbows,  intercept  the  entire  scene. 

In  front  of  me  a  very  young  man  wearing  eye- 
glasses, who  is  taking  notes  with  a  grave  air, 
observes, — 

"  It  is  puerile  !  " 

In  a  box  at  my  side  a  low  voice  is  saying,  — 

"  To-morrow,  you  remember." 

"  Is  it  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow  without  fail." 

It  would  appear  that  great  importance  is  attached 
to  to-morrow  in  the  minds  of  these  people.  I  am 
thinking  only  of  to-day.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
confusion,  not  a  point  of  my  play  tells,  nothing 
makes  the  least  impression.  The  voices  of  the 
actors,  instead  of  rising,  filling  the  house,  are  lost 
before  they  reach  the  footlights,  fall  with  a  dull 
sound  into  the  prompter's  box,  amid  an  inane  clap- 
ping of  hands  from  the  claque.  What  ails  that 
gentleman  who  sits  up  aloft?  What  vexes  him? 
I  am  really  intimidated.     I  go  out. 

When  I  reach  the  street  I  find  it  is  dark  and 
rainy,  but  I  scarcely  perceive  that.  Boxes  and  gal- 
leries with  luminous  rows  of  heads  are  whirling  be- 
fore me,  and  in  their  midst  one  fixed  and  shining 
point,  —  the  scene  on  the  stage.  This  grows 
fainter  as  I  get  farther  away  from  it.  I  walk  on, 
in  fruitless  effort  to  pull  myself  together ;  I  cannot 
efface  that  accursed  scene,  and  the  drama,  which  I 
know  by  heart,  continues  to  play  itself  out,  —  drags 
on  lugubriously  in  my  brain.     It  is  as  though  I 


230  Monday  Tales. 

carried  about  with  me  some  evil  dream,  with  which 
mingle  the  people  who  jostle  against  me,  and  the 
slush  and  noise  of  the  street.  At  the  edge  of  the 
boulevard  a  sharp  whistle  stops  me,  and  I  grow 
pale.  Imbecile  !  It  is  merely  a  whistle  starting  an 
omnibus.  As  I  walk  on,  the  rain  increases.  I  im- 
agine that  in  the  theatre  too  it  must  be  raining 
upon  my  drama,  that  its  own  weight  has  killed  it, 
that  it  falls  to  pieces,  and  that  my  heroes,  ashamed 
and  worn  out,  are  plodding  after  me  along  the  wet 
sidewalks  which  glisten  beneath  the  gaslight. 

To  dispel  these  gloomy  ideas,  I  enter  a  cafe.  I 
try  to  read,  but  the  letters  run  together,  dance, 
spread  apart,  and  whirl.  I  cannot  even  tell  what 
these  words  are  trying  to  say ;  they  seem  bizarre, 
devoid  of  meaning.  This  reminds  me  of  an  inci- 
dent of  some  years  ago.  It  was  at  sea,  the  weather 
very  stormy.  I  tried  to  read.  Beneath  a  roof 
flooded  with  water,  where  I  lay,  I  had  found  and 
tried  to  read  an  English  grammar.  There  with  the 
roar  of  the  waves  in  my  ears  and  the  sound  of  the 
wrenching  of  masts,  —  to  divert  myself  from  dan- 
ger, to  avoid  seeing  those  torrents  of  greenish 
water  that  fell  upon  the  deck,  pouring  all  over  it, 
I  devoted  all  my  energies  to  the  absorbing  study  of 
the  English  th.  But  vainly  did  I  read  aloud,  repeat 
the  words,  shouting  them  almost;  my  brain  was 
deafened  with  the  howling  of  the  sea,  the  sharp 
whistling  of  the  blast  through  the  yards. 

The  paper  I  am  holding  at  this  moment  seems 
to  me  as  incomprehensible  as  was  my  English 
grammar ;  however,  perhaps  because  I  have  stared 


A  First-Night  Performance.         231 

so  closely  at  the  big  sheet  spread  out  before  me, 
I  seem  to  see  printed  in  sharp,  concise  lines  to- 
morrow's articles,  and  my  own  name  discussed  in 
phrases  that  stick  like  thorns,  written  with  a  pen 
dipped  in  gall.  Suddenly  the  gas  is  turned  down. 
The  cafe  is  closing. 

Is  it  time  for  that?     What  can  be  the  hour? 

The  boulevards  are  full  of  people.  The  theatres 
are  emptied.  Doubtless  I  pass  some  who  have 
seen  my  play.  I  would  like  to  question  them, 
know  what  they  thought,  but  at  the  same  time  I 
pass  on  quickly,  that  I  need  not  overhear  reflec- 
tions aloud,  whole  feuilletons  in  the  streets.  Ah  ! 
how  happy  are  they  who  can  return  homeward 
with  the  consciousness  that  they  have  never  written 
a  play ! 

I  stand  before  the  theatre.  It  is  closed.  The 
lights  are  extinguished.  Decidedly  I  shall  gain 
no  information  to-night,  but,  as  I  look  at  the 
damp  bill-boards  and  the  great  candelabra  whose 
lights  blink  at  the  entrance,  an  intense  sadness 
comes  over  me.  That  great  building,  which  a  while 
ago  lent  light  and  animation  to  all  this  part  of  the 
boulevard,  is  dull  and  lifeless  now,  gloomy,  deserted, 
and  dripping  as  though  after  a  fire.  Ah,  well !  At 
last  it  is  over.  Six  long  months  of  labor,  of  dreams, 
weariness  alternating  with  hope,  all  they  meant  is 
lost,  shrivelled,  melted  into  nothingness  in  a  single 
evening,  under  the  glaring  gaslight. 


232  Monday   Talcs. 


CHEESE-SOUP. 

It  was  a  little  chamber  in  the  fifth  story,  one  of 
those  attics  where  the  rain  beats  straight  upon  the 
skylight ;  at  the  present  hour,  when  night  has  come, 
such  rooms  seem  to  be  lost,  roof  and  all,  in  gloom 
and  storm.  And  yet  this  chamber  is  pleasant, 
cozy,  and  upon  entering  it,  one  feels  an  indescriba- 
ble sensation  of  comfort,  which  the  gusts  of  wind 
without,  and  the  torrents  of  rain  dripping  from  the 
gutters  only  increase.  Yon  might  almost  believe 
yourself  to  be  in  a  warm  nest  at  the  top  of  some 
tall  tree.  For  the  moment  the  nest  is  empty ;  its 
occupant  is  not  there,  but  you  feel  sure  he  will  soon 
return.  Everything  within  seems  to  await  his 
coming.  Upon  a  smothered  fire  a  little  soup- 
kettle  is  boiling  tranquilly  with  a  murmur  of  satis- 
faction. It  keeps  rather  a  late  vigil,  and  although 
accustomed  to  that,  judging  by  its  sides  browned 
through  frequent  contact  with  the  flames,  it  becomes 
impatient  now  and  then,  and  its  cover  rises,  stirred 
by  the  steam ;  then  a  warm,  appetizing  whiff  as- 
cends, and  permeates  the  whole  chamber. 

Oh  !  the  delicious  odor  of  cheese-soup  ! 

At  times  too  the  fire  clears  itself  of  cinders, 
which  come  tumbling  down  through  the  logs,  while 
a  tiny  flame  darts  out   its   tongue  from   beneath, 


Cheese-Soup.  233 

lighting  the  lower  part  of  the  room,  as  if  making  a 
tour  of  inspection  to  be  assured  that  everything  is 
in  order.  Ah,  yes,  order  itself  reigns  there,  and 
the  master  may  return  any  moment  he  chooses. 
The  Algerian  curtains  are  drawn  in  front  of  the 
windows,  and  draped  comfortably  about  the  bed. 
There  is  the  big  arm-chair  spreading  itself  at  full 
length  in  front  of  the  fire ;  the  table  stands  in  one 
corner,  the  cloth  spread,  dishes  set  for  one  solitary 
diner,  the  lamp  ready  to  be  lighted,  and  beside  the 
plate  is  a  book,  the  companion  of  that  lonely  re- 
past. And  not  only  is  the  soup-pot  worn  through 
frequent  contact  with  the  fire,  but  the  flowers  upon 
each  dish  are  also  faded,  through  repeated  wash- 
ings, and  the  book  is  worn  at  the  edges.  Age  and 
long  use  have  softened  the  appearance  of  all  these 
well-worn  things.  One  feels  too  that  this  lodger  is 
obliged  to  return  very  late  each  evening,  and  that 
it  pleases  him,  when  he  enters,  to  find  that  little 
supper  simmering  away,  perfuming  and  warming 
the  chamber  to  which  he  returns. 

Oh  !  the  savory  odor  of  cheese-soup  ! 

Observing  the  neatness  of  that  bachelor  apart- 
ment, I  imagine  that  its  tenant  must  be  some  em- 
ployc",  one  of  those  beings  whose  devotion  to  the 
minutest  details  compels  them  to  regulate  all  their 
living  with  the  same  punctuality  with  which  they 
dispose  of  things  official,  and  as  methodically  as 
they  label  each  portfolio. 

The  extreme  lateness  of  his  return  would  seem 
to  indicate  that  he  is  one  of  the  night  force  in  the 
postaj  or  telegraph  service.     I   fancy  I  see   him, 


234  Monday  Tales, 

seated  behind  a  grating,  his  half-sleeves  of  lustrine 
drawn  up  to  the  elbow,  his  velvet  calotte  upon  his 
head,  while  he  sorts  and  stamps  letters,  winds  the 
blue  banderoles  of  despatches,  preparing  for  Paris 
asleep,  or  awake  in  pursuit  of  pleasure,  the  affairs 
of  to-morrow. 

But  no  —  this  is  not  his  business.  For,  as  it 
penetrates  each  recess  of  the  chamber,  the  tiny 
flame  of  the  hearth  gleams  upon  large  photo- 
graphs hanging  on  the  walls.  Emerging  from  the 
shadow,  framed  in  gold  and  magnificently  draped, 
may  be  seen  the  Emperor  Augustus,  Mahomet, 
F61ix,  Roman  knight,  Armenian  governor,  crowns, 
helmets,  tiaras,  and  turbans,  while  beneath  all  these 
different  head-dresses  there  is  always  the  same 
head,  erect  and  solemn,  the  head  of  the  master  of 
the  place,  the  fortunate  and  lordly  personage  for 
whom  that  fragrant  soup  simmers  away,  bubbling 
gently  upon  the  warm  cinders. 

Oh  !  the  delicious  odor  of  that  cheese-soup  ! 

Ah,  no !  this  is  no  employe  of  the  post-office. 
This  is  some  emperor,  a  world-master,  one  of 
those  providential  beings  who  on  those  evenings 
when  the  repertoire  is  given  causes  the  roof  of  the 
Od^on  to  tremble,  one  who  has  merely  to  com- 
mand, "  Seize  him,  guards !  "  and  the  guards  obey 
on  the  instant.  At  this  present  moment  he  is 
there  in  his  palace,  across  the  water.  With  bus- 
kined  heels,  his  chlamys  upon  his  shoulder,  he 
wanders  beneath  porticos,  declaiming  with  por- 
tentous frown,  wearing  a  wearied  air  through  all 
his  tragic  tirades.    And  indeed  it  is  dispiriting  to 


Cheese-  Soup,  235 

play  to  empty  benches.  And  the  auditorium  of 
the  Odeon  seems  so  vast,  so  cold,  on  the  evening 
of  a*  tragedy  !  Suddenly  the  emperor,  half- frozen 
beneath  his  purple,  feels  a  warm  thrill  run  through 
his  body.  His  eye  kindles,  his  nostrils  dilate. 
For  he  is  dreaming  of  the  warm  room  to  which  he 
will  return,  the  table  set,  the  lamp  ready  to  light, 
all  his  little  belongings  arranged  in  order,  with  that 
homely  attention  to  trifles  shown  by  the  actor 
who  in  private  life  makes  amends  for  stage  extrav- 
agances and  irregularities.  He  fancies  himself  un- 
covering that  soup-pot  and  filling  his  flowered 
plate. 

Oh,  the  savory  odor  of  that  cheese-soup  ! 

From  that  moment  he  is  no  longer  the  same 
man.  The  stiff  folds  of  his  chlamys,  the  marble 
stairs,  the  coldness  of  the  porticos,  these  things 
vex  him  no  longer.  He  becomes  animated,  has- 
tens the  play,  precipitates  the  action.  For  what  if 
his  fire  should  go  out !  As  the  evening  advances, 
the  vision  grows  nearer,  and  puts  new  life  into  him. 
Miraculous  !  the  Od6on  itself  seems  to  be  thawing. 
The  old  habitues  of  the  orchestra,  aroused  from 
their  torpor,  find  this  Marancourt  truly  magnifi- 
cent, especially  in  the  last  scenes.  And  indeed,  as 
the  dtnoiiment  approaches  the  decisive  hour  when 
the  traitors  are  to  be  poniarded,  and  princesses  to 
be  married,  the  face  of  the  emperor  wears  a  beatific 
expression,  an  air  of  singular  serenity.  His  stom- 
ach hollow  with  hunger  after  so  many  emotions 
and  tirades,  he  fancies  he  is  at  home  again,  seated  at 
his  little  table,  and  his  glance  wanders  from  Cinna 


236  Monday   Tales, 

to  Maximus  with  a  kindly  and  tender  smile,  as 
though  already  he  saw  those  charming  white  threads 
which  lengthen  on  the  end  of  a  spoon  when  cheese- 
soup,  after  simmering  properly,  is  just  cooked,  and 
poured  out  piping-hot. 


The  Last  Book,  237 


THE  LAST  BOOK. 

"  He  is  dead ! "  some  one  said  to  me  on  the 
stairway. 

For  some  days  past  I  had  been  expecting  this 
sad  news.  I  knew  that  at  any  moment  the  tidings 
might  greet  me  upon  the  threshold,  and  yet  there 
was  something  of  unexpectedness  in  the  blow  when 
it  came.  With  heavy  heart  and  trembling  lips  I 
entered  the  humble  apartment  of  a  man  of  letters. 
The  room  in  which  his  work  had  been  done  was 
the  most  prominent  of  all,  for  the  despotism  of 
learning  had  monopolized  whatever  comfort  or 
light  the  home  possessed. 

He  lay  there  upon  an  iron  bed  —  very  low  and 
small  it  was;  his  table  was  loaded  with  papers; 
his  large  handwriting  cut  short  in  the  middle  of 
the  page,  his  pen  still  standing  in  his  ink-bottle, 
told  how  suddenly  death  had  smitten  him.  Behind 
the  bed,  a  tall,  oaken  press,  overflowing  with  papers 
and  manuscripts,  stood  half  open,  almost  at  his 
head.  About  him  on  every  side,  books,  —  noth- 
ing but  books ;  in  every  corner,  on  shelves,  on  chairs,- 
on  the  desk,  piled  upon  the  floor,  in  corners,  even 
to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  When  he  was  writing,  seated 
at  his  table,  these  piles  of  books,  this  litter  upon 
which  no  dust  had  gathered,  could  please  the  eyes. 


2  $8  Monday   Tales, 

They  seemed  to  be  alive,  they  suggested  the  activity 
of  labor.  But  in  this  chamber  of  death  the  sight  of 
them  was  mournful.  All  these  poor  books  piled 
up  and  toppling  over  looked  now  as  though  they 
too  were  ready  to  start  upon  a  journey,  to  be  lost 
in  the  great  library  of  chance,  scattered  in  auction- 
rooms,  upon  the  quays,  in  shop-windows,  their 
leaves  fingered  by  the  wind  and  by  the  passing 
lounger. 

I  embraced  him  where  he  lay,  and  stood  gazing 
at  him,  startled  as  I  touched  his  forehead,  cold  and 
heavy  as  stone.  Suddenly  the  door  opened.  A 
clerk  from  some  publisher  entered  joyously,  loaded 
down,  out  of  breath,  and  threw  upon  the  table  a 
package  of  books  fresh  from  the  press. 

"  Bachelin  sent  these,"  he  exclaimed;  then  ob- 
serving the  figure  upon  the  bed,  he  recoiled,  raised 
his  cap,  and  retired  discreetly. 

It  seemed  horribly  ironic  that  this  package,  whose 
sending  had  been  delayed  for  a  month,  this  pack- 
age awaited  by  the  sick  man  with  so  much  impa- 
tience, should  have  been  received  by  the  dead. 
Poor  friend  !  it  was  his  last  book,  the  one  for  which 
he  expected  most.  With  what  minute  carefulness 
his  hands,  trembling  even  then  with  fever,  had  cor- 
rected the  proof-sheets.  How  he  longed  to  hasten 
the  day  when  he  would  handle  that  first  edition  ! 
During  the  last  days  of  his  illness,  when  he  could 
no  longer  speak,  his  eyes  gazed  fixedly  towards  the 
door,  and  if  the  printers,  proof-readers,  binders,  and 
all  that  world  of  people  employed  in  bringing  into 
the  world  the  work  of  one  individual  could  have  seen 


The  Last  Book,  239 

that  anguished  and  expectant  glance,  every  hand 
would  have  hastened  its  work;  the  type  would  have 
been  set  in  pages  more  rapidly,  the  pages  would 
have  grown  into  volumes,  that  they  might  have 
reached  him  in  time,  that  is  to  say,  a  day  earlier, 
and  thus  have  given  the  dying  man  the  delight 
of  recognizing,  in  well-printed  sentences,  about 
which  clung  all  the  fragrance  of  a  new  book,  those 
ideas  which  he  felt  were  already  fading,  vanishing 
from  his  memory. 

And  even  in  the  very  plenitude  of  life  that  pleas- 
ure is  one  of  which  a  writer  never  wearies.  To 
open  a  first  copy  of  his  work,  to  see  it  assume 
definite  form,  which  stands  out  in  bold  outline,  his 
thoughts  no  longer  seething  in  the  brain,  no  longer 
in  that  first  ebullition  where  all  is  as  yet  somewhat 
vague,  —  what  a  delightful  sensation  !  In  youth, 
it  simply  dazzles  one ;  the  letters  almost  blind  him, 
run  together,  look  blue  and  yellow  at  once,  as 
though  his  very  brain  were  intoxicated  with  sun- 
shine. Later,  with  this  joy  of  the  author  mingles 
a  tinge  of  sadness,  of  regret  that  he  has  not  said 
all  he  wished  to  say.  That  within  him  which  has 
never  said  itself  in  words  seems  always  far  more 
beautiful  than  that  which  is  already  accomplished. 
How  much  is  lost  in  that  journey  from  the  brain 
to  the  hand  !  In  his  deepest  dreaming,  the  con- 
ception of  the  book  seems  to  resemble  one  of  those 
lovely  medusce  of  the  Mediterranean,  which  flit 
through  the  sea  like  floating  phantoms,  but  when 
they  lie  upon  the  sand,  nothing  is  seen  but  water,  a 
few  discolored  drops  that  are  soon  dried  in  the  air. 


240  Monday  Tales. 

Alas!  of  these  joys  and  disillusions  the  poor 
fellow  received  none  from  his  last  work.  It  was 
heart-rending  to  gaze  at  this  lifeless  head,  droop- 
ing so  heavily  upon  the  pillow,  asleep  in  death, 
while  at  his  side  was  that  book,  so  fresh  and  new, 
that  book  which  would  soon  be  seen  in  the  shop- 
windows,  form  a  part  of  the  talk  of  the  street,  the 
life  of  the  day,  —  whose  title  passers-by  would 
read  mechanically,  carrying  it  away  in  the  memory, 
impressed  upon  the  retina,  with  the  name  of  its 
author  inscribed  now  upon  that  sadder  leaf  of  the 
city's  register  —  that  name  whose  letter  looked  so 
bright,  so  gay  on  the  cover,  its  color  still  fresh, 
unfaded.  The  entire  problem  of  the  soul  and  the 
body  seemed  to  be  there ;  that  rigid  corpse  would 
so  soon  be  given  to  earth  and  forgotten,  while  the 
book,  starting  forth  on  its  life  apart  from  him,  like 
a  visible  soul,  was  full  of  vitality,  and  perhaps  —  a 
thing  immortal. 

"  He  promised  me  a  first  edition,"  I  heard  a 
lachrymose  voice  near  me  whisper.  I  looked 
around,  and  my  glance  met  the  keen  eye  of  a  gold- 
spectacled  enthusiast.  I  was  acquainted  with  him, 
and  you  also  are,  my  friends  who  write.  He  was 
the  bibliophile  who  knocks  at  your  door  as  soon 
as  your  volume  is  announced,  —  two  timid  but  per- 
sistent knocks  that  resemble  himself.  He  enters 
smiling,  bowing  low,  wriggling  about  you,  and  he 
addresses  you  as  "  dear  master !  "  and  does  not 
depart  without  carrying  away  your  last  book. 
Merely  the  last !  He  has  all  the  others.  This 
only  he  still  lacks.     And  how  can  one  refuse  him? 


The  Last  Book.  241 

He  arrives  so  opportunely,  he  knows  just  when 
to  catch  you,  while  you  are  still  in  the  midst  of 
that  joy  of  which  we  were  speaking,  full  of  the 
abandon  of  the  Envoy  or  the  Dedication.  Ah ! 
that  terrible  little  man,  whom  nothing  rebuffs, 
neither  heavy  doors  nor  frozen  greetings,  neither 
wind,  rain,  nor  distance.  Of  a  morning  you  en- 
counter him  in  the  Rue  de  la  Pompe,  knocking 
at  the  low  door  of  the  Patriarch  of  Passy.  At 
nightfall  he  returns  from  Marly  with  Sardou's 
latest  drama  under  his  arm.  And  so,  forever 
upon  the  go,  always  in  quest,  he  fills  his  hours, 
though  he  works  not,  fills  his  shelves,  though  he 
buys  not. 

Surely  this  passion  for  books  must  have  been 
very  strong  in  the  man,  to  have  brought  him  even 
to  the  bedside  of  the  dead. 

"  Here  is  your  copy  —  take  it,"  I  said  impa- 
tiently. He  not  merely  took  it,  he  swallowed  it 
up.  Once  the  volume  had  quite  disappeared  in 
his  pocket  he  remained  there  without  budging, 
without  speaking ;  his  head  leaning  upon  his  elbow, 
he  wiped  his  glasses  with  a  softened  air.  What 
was  he  waiting  for?  What  kept  him  there?  Per- 
haps some  passing  feeling  of  shame,  embarrass- 
ment at  the  thought  of  leaving  so  suddenly,  as  if  he 
had  merely  come  for  the  book? 

Ah,  no ! 

Upon  the  table,  the  wrapper  half  removed,  he 

had  perceived  copies  the  book-lover  prizes  —  their 

edges  rough,  uncut,  wide  margins,  vignettes,  and 

tailpieces.     In  spite  of  his  meditative  attitude,  his 

16 


242  Monday   Tales. 

pensive  absorption,  all  was  revealed.     The  wretch 
had  caught  sight  of  them. 

Oh,  this  mania  for  seeing  things  !  Even  I  myself 
was  distracted  for  a  moment  from  my  emotion. 
Through  my  tears  I  could  not  help  following  that 
painful  bit  of  comedy  played  at  the  dead  man's 
bedside.  Slowly,  with  little  invisible  jerks,  the 
book-lover  approached  the  table.  His  hand,  as  if 
by  chance,  closed  upon  one  of  those  volumes ;  he 
turned  it  about,  opened  it,  fingered  the  leaves.  By 
degrees  his  eye  kindled,  the  blood  mounted  to  his 
cheeks.  The  magic  of  the  book  operated  upon 
him.  At  last  he  could  no  longer  contain  his  emo- 
tion. He  captured  a  copy.  "  It  is  for  Monsieur 
de  Sainte-Beuve,"  he  said  half  audibly ;  and  in  his 
feverish  anxiety  and  fear  lest  some  one  should  take 
it  from  him,  perhaps,  too,  to  convince  me  that  it 
was  indeed  intended  for  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Beuve, 
he  added,  very  gravely,  in  a  tone  of  indescribable 
compunction,  "  of  the  Acadhnie  francaise  !  "  and 
disappeared. 


House  for  Sale!  243 


HOUSE  FOR  SALE! 

Above  the  gate,  a  wooden  gate,  badly  put 
together,  and  not  preventing  the  sandy  soil  of  the 
little  garden  from  mingling  with  the  earth  of  the 
road,  a  sign  had  hung  for  some  time,  scarcely 
stirred  under  the  sun  of  summer,  but  twisted  and 
shaken  by  every  gale  of  autumn  :  House  for  Sale  I 
And  something  seemed  to  say  that  it  was  a  deserted 
house  as  well,  so  deep  was  the  silence  surround- 
ing it. 

And  yet  some  one  dwelt  there.  A  tiny  bluish 
ring  of  smoke  ascending  from  the  brick  chimney 
which  rose  slightly  above  the  wall,  betrayed  that 
an  existence  was  in  hiding  here,  —  an  existence  as 
sad,  as  inobtrusive  as  the  smoke  of  that  meagre 
fire.  Through  the  loose  and  rickety  boards  of 
that  gate  could  be  seen,  not  the  abandon  and 
emptiness,  that  indescribable  something  in  the  air 
which  precedes  and  announces  an  auction  sale  and 
departure,  but  instead  were  trim  walks,  rounded 
arbors,  water-cans  near  an  artificial  basin,  and 
gardener's  tools  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  tiny 
house.  It  was  merely  a  peasant's  cottage  built 
on  an  incline,  propped  by  a  tiny  stairway,  which 
placed  the  first  story  on  the  shady  side,  the  ground- 
floor  facing  the  south.    On  that  side  it  looked  like 


244  Monday   Tales, 

a  hothouse.  There  were  bell-glasses  piled  up 
along  the  walks,  empty  flower-pots  turned  upside 
down ;  others,  in  rows  and  filled  with  geraniums 
and  verbenas,  stood  in  the  warm,  white  sand.  Ex- 
cept for  the  shade  of  three  great  plane  trees,  the 
garden  basked  in  sunshine.  A  fruit-wall,  and 
fruit  trees  with  fan-shaped  props  of  iron  wire 
stood  in  the  sunshine,  somewhat  robbed  of  their 
leafage,  but  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  fruit. 
There  were  strawberry-beds  too,  and  peas  well 
propped ;  in  the  midst  of  all  these  things,  sur- 
rounded by  order  and  calm,  an  old  man  in  a  straw 
hat  went  up  and  down  through  the  walks  all  day 
long,  watering  his  garden  through  the  early 
hours  of  the  day,  pruning  branches,  and  trimming 
borders. 

The  old  man  knew  no  one  in  the  neighborhood. 
Except  for  the  baker's  wagon,  which  stopped  at 
every  door  of  the  only  street  in  the  village,  he 
never  received  a  visit.  Sometimes,  in  search  of 
one  of  those  lots  of  land  half-way  up  the  hill, 
always  fruitful,  and  making  such  charming  or- 
chards, some  passer-by  would  sight  the  sign,  and 
pause  to  ring. 

At  first  the  house  would  remain  deaf.  At  the 
second  ring  there  was  heard  the  sound  of  wooden 
shoes  approaching  slowly  from  the  farthest  end  of 
the  garden,  and  the  old  man  opened  the  door  half- 
way with  a  furious  air. 

"  What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Is  this  house  for  sale?  " 

"Yes,"  answered   the   worthy  man,  with  some 


House  for  Sale  /  245 

ffort.  "  Yes,  it  is  for  sale,  but  I  will  tell  you  in 
.dvance  that  the  price  is  very  high;"  and  his 
land  was  placed  upon  the  door,  ready  to  close  it 
nd  obstruct  all  entrance.  And  his  eyes  com- 
piled you  to  go  away,  they  showed  such  anger ; 
le  remained  there,  guarding  like  a  dragon  his 
dots  of  vegetables  and  his  little  sand-yard.  Peo- 
>le  passed  on  their  way,  asking  themselves  what 
naniac  this  might  be  with  whom  they  had  to  deal, 
nd  what  was  meant  by  this  folly  of  putting  up 
hat  sign  "  For  Sale,"  and  showing  such  desire  that 
lis  house  should  remain  unsold. 

The  mystery  was  explained  to  me.     One  day  as 

passed  the  little  house,  I  heard  the  sound  of  ani- 
mated voices  in  eager  discussion. 

"  It  must  be  sold,  papa,  it  must  be  sold.  You 
>romised." 

And  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  old  man  was 
leard, — 

"  But,  my  children,  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
ell  it.     Look!     Have  I  not  put  up  a  sign?  " 

I  thus  learned  that  these  were  his  sons  and  his 
laughters-in-law,  petty  Parisian  shopkeepers,  who 
vere  compelling  him  to  dispose  of  this  well-loved 
;pot.  For  what  reason?  I  do  not  know.  But 
>ne  thing  was  certain :  they  had  begun  to  find  that 
natters  were  moving  too  slowly ;  and  from  that  day 
:hey  appeared  regularly  every  Sunday  to  harass 
:he  unfortunate  man,  and  oblige  him  to  keep  his 
Dromise.  In  that  deep  Sabbath  stillness,  when 
*ven  the  earth  itself  rests  after  sowing  and  laboring 
ill    week   long,   I   could   hear  those   voices   very 


246  Monday   Tales. 

plainly  from  the  road.  The  shopkeepers  were 
talking,  arguing  among  themselves,  as  they  played 
tonneauy  and  that  word  "  money,"  spoken  by  those 
sharp  voices,  had  all  the  hard  metallic  sound  of  the 
quoits  they  were  tossing.  In  the  evening  they 
would  all  depart  again,  and  after  the  old  man  had 
reconducted  them  along  the  road  for  a  few  steps 
he  returned  quickly,  and  gladly  closed  his  big  gate, 
with  another  week  of  respite  before  him.  For 
seven  days'  space  the  house  was  silent  again.  In 
the  little  sun-baked  garden  nothing  could  be  heard 
but  the  sound  of  sand  crushed  under  a  heavy  foot, 
and  the  dragging  of  a  rake. 

But  as  weeks  went  on  the  old  man  was  tor- 
mented and  pressed  more  and  more.  The  shop- 
keepers employed  every  means.  Little  children 
were  brought  there  to  seduce  him. 

"Don't  you  see,  grandpapa?  when  the  house 
is  sold  you  shall  live  with  us  !  We  shall  all  be  so 
happy  together."  And  there  were  whispered 
asides  in  every  corner,  endless  promenades  along 
the  walks,  calculations  made  in  a  loud  voice. 
On  one  occasion  I  heard  one  of  the  daughters 
exclaim,  — 

"  The  shanty  is  not  worth  a  hundred  sous.  It  is 
only  fit  to  be  torn  down." 

The  old  man  listened  silently.  They  talked  of 
him  as  though  he  were  already  dead,  of  his  house 
as  if  it  were  already  demolished.  He  walked 
about,  his  body  bent,  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  through 
force  of  habit  feeling  for  a  branch  he  might  prune, 
a  fruit  he  might  care  for,  in  passing,  and  it  was 


House  for  Sale  /  247 

evident  that  his  life  was  so  firmly  rooted  in  this 
ittle  spot  of  earth  that  he  had  not  strength  to  tear 
limself  away  from  it.  And,  indeed,  no  matter 
vhat  was  said  to  him,  he  always  contrived  to  put 
}ff  the  moment  of  departure.  In  summer,  with  the 
'ipening  of  those  slightly  acid  fruits  which  exhale 
:he  freshness  of  the  season,  as  the  cherries  and  the 
;urrants  black  and  red  ripened,  he  said, — 

"  We  must  wait  till  after  they  have  been  gath- 
ered.    I  will  sell  it  immediately  after  that." 

But  after  the  gathering,  when  the  cherry  season 
lad  gone  by,  came  the  peaches,  then  the  grapes, 
md  after  the  grapes  those  beautiful  brown  medlars 
which  may  be  gathered  almost  up  to  the  time  of 
:he  first  snow-fall.  Then  winter  arrived.  The 
:ountry  was  dismal  then,  the  garden  had  nothing 
eft  in  it.  No  passers-by,  no  purchasers.  The 
shopkeepers  themselves  no  longer  appeared  of  a 
Sunday.  Three  long  months  of  rest  in  which  to 
prepare  for  the  sowing,  to  prune  the  fruit  trees 
while  that  useless  sign  rocked  back  and  forth  upon 
the  road,  swayed  by  wind  and  rain. 

At  length,  grown  impatient,  and  persuaded  that 
the  old  man  was  striving  to  drive  away  every  pur- 
chaser, his  children  took  a  decided  step.  One 
of  the  daughters-in-law  proceeded  to  install  her- 
self in  the  house,  —  a  little  shopwoman,  finely 
arrayed  from  early  morning,  comely  in  appear- 
ance, and  possessing  that  artificial  sweetness,  that 
obsequious  amiability  cultivated  by  people  accus- 
tomed to  a  commercial  life.  The  very  highway 
seemed  to  belong  to  her.     She  opened  the  gate 


248  Monday   Tales, 

wide,  talked  loudly,  smiling  at  every  passer-by,  as 
if  to  say, — 

"  Come  in.  Don't  you  see  that  the  house  is  for 
sale?" 

No  more  respite  for  the  poor  old  man.  At 
times  he  would  endeavor  to  forget  her  presence, 
dig  his  garden-plots,  and  sow  them  once  more, 
as  a  man  who  stands  in  the  presence  of  death, 
and  loves  to  delude  even  his  fears  by  devising 
new  plans.  But  all  the  time  the  shopwoman  fol- 
lowed him  about,  tormenting  him :  "  Bah  !  what 
good  is  that?  —  You  are  taking  all  this  trouble 
for  others !  " 

He  never  replied  to  her,  but  continued  his  work 
with  a  singular  obstinacy.  Had  he  let  his  garden 
alone,  he  would  have  felt  that  already  it  was  partly 
lost  to  him,  that  he  must  begin  to  wean  himself 
from  it;  therefore  he  did  not  permit  a  single  blade 
of  grass  in  the  walks,  or  a  single  gourmand  among 
his  rose  bushes. 

Meanwhile  purchasers  did  not  present  them- 
selves. The  war  was  in  progress,  and  all  in  vain 
did  the  woman  keep  that  gate  wide  open,  and 
make  eyes  affably  at  the  road.  She  saw  loads  of 
furniture  moved  away,  nothing  more.  Only  dusl 
entered  at  the  gate.  From  day  to  day  the  woman's 
temper  grew  more  sour.  Her  business  in  Paris 
needed  her  presence.  I  heard  her  heap  reproaches 
upon  her  father-in-law,  make  genuine  scenes  with 
him,  slamming  the  doors.  The  old  man  bent  his 
back  and  said  nothing,  but  consoled  himself  with 
watching  his  little  peas  beginning  to  climb,  and 


House  for  Sale  /  249 

with  seeing  always   in   the  same  place  that  sign, 
House  for  Sale  ! 

That  year,  when  I  arrived  in  the  country,  I  rec- 
ognized the  house,  but  alas !  the  sign  was  no 
longer  there.  Torn,  mouldy  placards  still  hung 
along  the  walls,  but  all  was  over !  The  house 
had  been  sold.  Instead  of  the  great  gray  entrance 
was  a  green  gate,  freshly  painted,  with  a  swelling 
fronton,  and  a  small  grated  opening  through 
which  one  could  peep  into  the  garden.  It  was  no 
longer  the  fruit-orchard  of  other  days,  but  a  bour- 
geois heap  of  flower-beds,  of  lawns  and  cascades, 
and  everything  was  reflected  in  a  huge  metal  ball 
which  swayed  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the  steps. 
Reflected  in  this  ball  the  walks  were  seen  bordered 
with  gaudy  flower-beds,  and  two  figures  whose 
size  was  even  exaggerated ;  one  was  a  big,  red- 
faced  man,  dripping  with  perspiration,  and  buried 
in  a  rustic  chair;  the  other  was  an  enormous 
woman,  who  cried,  quite  out  of  breath,  as  she 
brandished  a  watering-pot, — 

"  I  have  put  fourteen  canfuls  upon  the  balsams  !  " 
They  had  built  for  themselves,  renovated  the 
palisades,  and  in  this  little  house,  completely  re- 
modelled and  still  smelling  of  paint,  a  piano  was 
playing  familiar  quadrilles  and  polkas  and  dance- 
hall  airs  at  full  speed.  This  dance-music,  which 
could  be  heard  out  on  the  road,  making  one  warm 
to  listen,  the  thick  dust  of  that  July  day,  the 
vulgar  display  of  big  flowers  and  fat  women,  this 
excessive  and  trivial  gayety  rent  my  heart.  I  was 
thinking  of  the  poor  old  man  who  used  to  walk 


250  Monday   Tales, 

there,  so  happy  and  peaceful.  I  pictured  him  in 
Paris,  his  straw  hat  upon  his  head ;  I  seemed  to  see 
the  bent  shoulders  of  the  old  gardener  as  he  wan- 
dered about  in  the  middle  of  some  back  shop, 
weary,  timid,  tearful,  while  his  daughter-in-law,  the 
triumphant  owner  of  a  new  counter,  jingled  the 
money  the  little  house  had  brought. 


Yule- Tide  Stories,  251 


YULE-TIDE  STORIES. 

I. 

A  CHRISTMAS-EVE  REVEL  IN  THE  MARAIS. 

M.  Majeste,  manufacturer  of  seltzer-water  in 
the  Marais,  has  been  celebrating  Christmas-eve 
with  a  little  party  of  friends  in  the  Place  Royale, 
and  now  is  returning  homeward,  humming  a  tune 
to  himself.  Saint  Paul  strikes  two.  "  How  late  it 
is !  "  says  the  good  man,  and  he  hastens.  But 
trie  pavement  is  slippery,  the  streets  dark,  and, 
besides,  in  that  infernal  old  quarter,  which  dates 
ftorn  the  days  when  vehicles  were  rare,  there  are  so 
many  windings,  corners,  and  spur-stones  in  front 
of  the  gates  for  the  convenience  of  horsemen,  that 
all  these  things  prevent  a  man  from  making  speed, 
especially  when  his  legs  are  a  little  heavy,  and  his 
eyes  somewhat  dimmed,  after  all  the  toasts  of  the 
evening.  However,  M.  Majeste  reaches  home  at 
last.  He  pauses  before  a  tall,  decorated  portal 
where  a  scutcheon  lately  gilded,  gleams  in  the 
light  of  the  moon ;  the  ancient  armorial  bearings 
have  been  re-painted,  and  now  serve  as  the  sign  of 
his  manufacturing  establishment,  — 

Former  Hotel  de  Nesmond. 

MAJESTE  Junior, 

Manufacturer  of  Seltzer-Water, 


252  Monday   Tales. 

Upon  all  the  siphons  of  the  factory,  on  bill-heads 
and  letter-heads  also,  are  displayed  the  ancient, 
resplendent  arms  of  Nesmond. 

The  portal  passed,  the  courtyard  is  entered ;  it 
is  large,  bright,  and  airy,  and  in  the  day-time,  when 
its  entrance  is  opened,  all  the  street  is  lighted  by 
it.  At  the  farther  end  is  a  great  building,  very 
ancient,  the  dark  walls  carved  and  decorated, 
swelling  balconies  of  iron,  stone  balconies  with 
pilasters,  immense,  lofty  windows,  surmounted  with 
frontons,  their  capitals  rising  even  to  the  top  story ; 
there  was  roof  within  roof,  and,  crowning  all,  dor- 
mer windows  looked  out  from  masses  of  slate,  each 
encircled  with  garlands  like  a  mirror.  There  was 
also  a  great  stone  stairway,  corroded  from  many  a 
rain ;  a  poor  lean  vine  clung  to  the  walls,  as  black 
as  the  cord  hanging  from  the  pulley  in  the  loft; 
an  indescribable  air  of  sadness  and  decay  clung 
to  everything.  This  was  the  ancient  Hotel  de 
Nesmond.  By  day  the  aspect  of  the  place  wa^ 
different.  The  words  "  Office,  Shop,  Workman'' s 
Entrance"  standing  in  gilded  letters  upon  the  old 
walls,  make  them  look  alive  and  modern.  Teams 
from  the  railway  stations  pass  and  shake  the  portal. 
Clerks  come  to  the  stone  steps,  each  with  pen  be- 
hind his  ear,  and  ready  to  receive  merchandise. 
The  courtyard  is  loaded  with  cases,  baskets,  straw, 
and  packing-cloth.  It  is  easily  perceived  that  this 
is  a  factory.  But  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  night, 
when  the  wintry  moonlight  darts  through  that 
mass  of  complicated  roofs,  its  light  interwoven 
with  shadows,  the  ancient  house  of  the  Nesmonds 


Yule-Tide  Stories.  253 

assumes  once  more  its  seigniorial  aspect.  The 
carving  of  the  balconies  looks  like  lace-work,  the 
court  of  honor  seems  larger  than  before,  and 
the  old  staircase,  unequally  lighted,  has  nooks 
which  remind  you  of  dim  cathedral  corners,  empty 
niches  and  hidden  steps  like  those  of  an  altar. 

And  on  this  special  evening  M.  Majeste  finds 
that  his  house  presents  a  singular  appearance.  As 
he  crosses  the  deserted  courtyard  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps  impresses  him.  The  staircase  seems 
immense  to  him,  and  difficult  to  climb.  No  doubt 
the  festivities  of  the  evening  have  something  to  do 
with  this.  Arrived  at  the  first  story  he  stops  to 
regain  breath,  and  approaches  a  window.  Ah  !  see 
what  it  is  to  inhabit  an  historic  house.  Monsieur 
Majeste-  is  not  poetical,  no,  indeed !  and  yet,  as  he 
looks  upon  that  beautiful,  aristocratic  courtyard, 
where  the  moon  spreads  a  veil  of  blue  light,  as  he 
looks  at  this  venerable  place,  once  a  nobleman's 
residence  and  now  appearing  as  if  asleep,  its  roofs 
benumbed  beneath  their  hood  of  snow,  thoughts  of 
the  other  world  come  to  him. 

"  Well,  now  !  what  if  the  Nesmonds  returned?  " 
At  this  moment  a  loud  ringing  of  bells  reaches 
his  ears;  the  folding-doors  at  the  entrance  of  the 
house  open  so  quickly  and  brusquely  that  the 
street-lamp  is  extinguished,  and  for  some  moments 
there  is  heard  below,  in  the  doorway  wrapped  in 
shadow,  an  indistinct  sound,  the  sound  of  voices 
whispering,  that  mingle  with  a  rustling  noise. 
They  dispute,  press  forward,  hasten  to  enter. 
Lackeys,  innumerable  lackeys  are  there,  coaches 


254  Monday   Tales. 

with  plate-glass  doors  and  windows  gleam  in  the 
moonlight,  sedan-chairs  move  to  and  fro,  a  torch 
on  each  side  flaming  up  as  the  current  of  air  from 
the  portal  strikes  them.  In  no  time  the  courtyard 
is  full  of  people.  But  at  the  foot  of  the  stone  steps 
the  confusion  ceases.  People  are  seen  descending 
from  their  carriages,  bowing  to  each  other ;  they 
enter,  talking  together  as  if  they  are  acquainted 
with  the  house.  There  is  a  rustling  of  silk  on  the 
steps,  a  clatter  of  swords.  Only  white  heads  are 
seen,  locks  so  heavily  powdered  that  they  look  dull 
and  dead ;  all  these  voices  are  thin  and  clear,  and 
slightly  tremulous ;  their  tiny  peals  of  laughter  are 
hollow,  without  volume;  their  footsteps  scarcely 
seem  to  touch  the  ground.  All  these  men  and 
women  appear  to  be  old,  very  old.  Their  eyes  are 
sunken ;  their  jewels  have  no  glow  of  fire ;  the 
ancient  silks  they  wear  shimmer  softly  with  chang- 
ing tints  which  gleam  faintly  beneath  the  light 
from  the  torches ;  and  above  all  this  splendor  floats 
a  little  cloud  of  powder,  which  rises  from  all  these 
heads  with  coiffures  piled  up  high  and  rolled  into 
little  ringlets;  at  each  of  their  charming  courtesies, 
somewhat  stiff  because  of  swords  and  big  pan- 
niers, that  tiny  cloud  rises.  Soon  the  entire  house 
appears  to  be  haunted.  Torches  gleam  from 
window  to  window,  go  up  and  down  along  the 
winding  stairs,  and  are  seen  even  in  the  dormer 
windows  of  the  roof,  which  catch  a  gleam  of  all  this 
animation  and  merry-making.  The  entire  Hotel  de 
Nesmond  is  illumined  as  if  a  bright  ray  from  the 
setting  sun  had  kindled  its  windows. 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  255 

"  Ah,  mon  Dien  !  they  will  set  the  house  afire  !  " 
said  Monsieur  Majeste.  And,  awakened  from  his 
stupor,  he  tries  to  shake  the  numbness  out  of  his 
legs,  and  descends  quickly  into  the  courtyard, 
where  the  lackeys  have  just  lighted  a  big,  bright 
fire.  M.  Majeste  approaches  and  speaks  to  them. 
The  lackeys  do  not  answer  him,  but  continue  to 
talk  in  a  whisper  among  themselves ;  yet,  as  they 
talk,  not  the  slightest  vapor  escapes  from  their  lips 
into  the  glacial  darkness  of  the  night.  Monsieur 
Majeste"  is  not  very  well  pleased,  but  one  thing  re- 
assures him.  That  great  fire  which  leaps  straight 
into  the  air  to  such  a  height  is  a  most  singular  fire, 
a  flame  without  warmth,  a  fire  which  is  bright,  but 
does  not  burn.  His  mind  set  at  rest  on  that  score, 
the  good  man  climbs  the  steps,  and  enters  his  store- 
rooms. 

These  store-rooms  on  the  ground-floor  were  in 
former  days  magnificent  reception-rooms.  Bits  of 
tarnished  gold  still  glitter  at  every  corner.  Myth- 
ological figures  circle  about  the  ceiling,  surround 
the  mirrors,  float  above  the  doors  in  vague  tints 
somewhat  dimmed,  like  the  memories  of  by-gone 
years.  Unfortunately  there  are,  no  curtains,  no 
furniture  left.  Only  baskets  and  big  packing-cases 
full  of  siphons  with  pewter  heads ;  behind  the  win- 
dows the  blackened,  withered  branches  of  an  old 
lilac  tree  rise.  When  M.  Majeste"  enters,  he  finds 
his  store-room  lighted  and  full  of  people.  He 
salutes  them,  but  no  one  pays  the  slightest  atten- 
tion to  him.  The  women,  each  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  her  cavalier,  continue  to  rustle  their  satin  pel- 


256  Monday   Tales. 

isses  as  they  make  little,  mincing,  ceremonious 
gestures.  They  promenade,  talk,  and  disperse. 
Verily,  all  these  ancient  marquises  seem  to  find 
themselves  quite  at  home.  Before  a  painted  pier- 
glass  one  tiny  apparition  pauses,  all  of  a  tremble, 
and  whispers,  "  To  think  that  this  is  I !  — just  look 
at  me !  "  and  she  glances  with  a  smile  towards  a 
Diana  who  is  seen  in  the  wainscoting,  slender,  rose- 
tinted,  a  crescent  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Nesmond  !  come  here  and  look  at  your  coat 
of  arms  !  "  and  every  one  laughs  to  see  the  Nesmond 
arms  blazoned  upon  a  packing-cloth,  and  the  name 
of  Majeste"  underneath.  "  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  — Majestt 7 
What !  have  their  Majesties  still  a  corner  in 
France?" 

And  endless  gayety  greets  this  discovery,  tiny, 
flute-like  peals  of  laughter,  fingers  tossed  in  the  air, 
and  fantastic  grimaces. 

Suddenly  some  one  exclaims,  — 

"  Champagne,  champagne  !  " 

"  But  —  it  cannot  be." 

"But  — it  is." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  champagne !  Come,  Countess, 
quick  !   a  little  for  the  sake  of  Christmas-eve  !  " 

It  is  M.  Majesty's  seltzer-water  they  have  mis- 
taken for  champagne.  They  find  it  slightly  flat, 
but  —  bah!  they  drink  it  just  the  same,  and  as 
these  poor  little  ghosts  are  somewhat  light-headed, 
by  degrees  that  foaming  seltzer  animates,  excites 
them,  and  fills  them  with  a  longing  to  dance. 
Minuets  are  formed. 

Four  fine  violins  Nesmond  has  summoned  com- 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  257 

mence  an  air  of  Rameau's,  all  in  triolets ;  its  quick, 
short  steps  have  a  melancholy  ring  in  spite  of  the 
vivacity  of  the  rhythm.  It  was  delightful  to  see  all 
these  charming  old  couples  turn  about  slowly,  sa- 
luting each  other  to  the  measure  of  that  solemn 
music.  The  very  garments  of  the  dancers  seemed 
to  renew  their  youth,  even  those  golden  waistcoats, 
brocaded  coats,  and  diamond-buckled  shoes;  the 
walls  themselves  seemed  alive  as  they  listened  to 
those  ancient  airs.  The  old  mirror,  confined  in 
the  wall  for  two  hundred  years,  scratched  and  black- 
ened at  the  corners,  recognized  them  also,  and  re- 
flected the  image  of  each  dancer,  —  a  reflection 
slightly  dimmed,  as  if  with  the  tender  emotion  of  a 
regret.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  elegance,  M. 
Majeste"  feels  uneasy.  He  squats  behind  a  pack- 
ing-box, and  watches  them.  By  slow  degrees  day 
arrives.  Through  the  glass  doors  of  the  store- 
room he  sees  the  courtyard  grow  lighter ;  then  the 
light  begins  to  come  through  the  top  of  the  win- 
dows, and  at  last  one  whole  side  of  the  room  is 
lighted.  As  the  light  grows  brighter,  the  figures 
fade,  and  become  indistinct.  After  a  while,  M. 
Majeste  can  see  only  two  small  violins  lingering  in 
a  corner,  and  as  the  daylight  touches  them,  they, 
too,  vanish.  In  the  courtyard  he  can  still  perceive, 
but  vaguely,  the  shape  of  a  sedan-chair,  a  powdered 
head  sown  with  emeralds,  and  the  last  spark  from 
a  torch  which  the  lackeys  have  thrown  on  the  pave- 
ment, mingling  with  the  sparks  from  the  wheels  of 
a  wagon  which  passes  heavily  through  the  portal, 
rumbling  as  it  enters. 

17 


258  Monday   Tales. 


II. 

THE  THREE  LOW   MASSES, 
I. 

"  TWO  truffled  turkeys,  Garrigou  ?  " 

"  Yes,  rMrend,  two  magnificent  turkeys,  stuffed 
with  truffles.  I  should  know  something  about 
them,  for  I  myself  helped  to  fill  them.  It  seemed 
as  if  their  skin  must  crack  in  roasting,  they  were 
so  well-filled.,, 

"  fesus-Maria  !  How  I  love  truffles.  Quick, 
Garrigou  !  bring  me  my  surplice.  And  with  the 
turkeys,  did  you  see  aught  else  in  the  kitchen?" 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  good  things.  Since  noon  we 
did  nothing  but  pluck  pheasants,  hoopoes,  pullets, 
and  grouse ;  feathers  were  flying  in  every  direction ; 
then  from  the  fish-pond  were  brought  eels  and 
golden  carp,  trout  and  —  " 

"  How  large  were  those  trout,  Garrigou?  " 

"  As  large  as  that,  reverend  father,  enormous !  " 

"  Dieu  /  methinks  I  see  them  at  this  moment. 
Have  you  filled  the  flagons  with  wine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  rMrend,  I  have  filled  them  with  wine,  but 
indeed  it  is  no  such  wine  as  that  you  will  drink 
immediately  the  midnight  mass  is  over.  If  you 
could  see  all  that  is  in  the  dining-hall  of  the  castle, 
the  decanters  flaming  with  wine  of  all  colors,  and  the 
silver   plates,   the  carved    epergnes,    the    flowers, 


Yule-Tide  Stories,  259 

the  candelabra  !  Never  again  will  the  world  see  the 
like !  Monsieur  le— M-arquis  has  iftvite4-all  the 
lo^ds-of-the -neighborhood.  There  will  be  at  least 
&>r-tyof  you  at  table,  without  counting  either  the 
bailiff  or  the  notary;  Ah  !  you  are  fortunate  indeed 
to  be  one  of  them,  re've'rend.  I  merely  caught  a 
whiff  of  those  fine  turkeys,  and  the  odor  of  the 
truffles  follows  me  everywhere.     Meuh!" 

"  Come,  come,  my  son.  Let  us  beware  of  the 
sin  of  gluttony,  especially  upon  the  Eve  of  the 
Nativity.  Make  haste  to  light  the  candles  upon 
the  altar,  and  ring  the  first  bell  for  mass ;  for  the 
hour  of  midnight  approaches,  and  we  must  not  be 
late." 

This  conversation  took  place  in  the  Christmas- 
season  of  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  six  hun- 
dred —  and  it  matters  not  how  many  years  beside 
—  between  the  Reverend  Dom  Balaguere,  ancient 
prior  of  the  Order  of  Barnabas,  at  that  time  chap- 
lain of  the  Sires  of  Trinquelague,  and  his  petty- 
clerk,  Garrigou,  or  to  be  more  exact,  him  whom  the 
prior  believed  to  be  his  clerk  Garrigou  ;  for  you  will 
see  that  the  Evil  One,  on  that  evening,  had  assumed 
the  round  face  and  undecided  features  of  the  young 
sacristan,  that  he  might  the  more  easily  lead  the 
reverend  father  into  temptation  and  force  him  to 
commit  the  frightful  sin  of  gluttony.  The  self-styled 
Garrigou  {Jium  !  hum  !)  began  to  ring  the  bells  of 
the  seigniorial  chapel  with  all  his  might ;  the  rever- 
end father  at  last  invested  himself  with  his  chasuble 
in  the  small  sacristy  of  the  castle.  But,  his  spirit 
already  somewhat    disturbed  by  all  those  gastro- 


260  Monday   Tales. 

nomic  descriptions,  he  repeated  to  himself  while 
donning  his  vestments,  — 

"  Roast  turkeys,  golden  carps,  and  trouts  as 
big  as  that !  "  Without,  the  night-wind  blew,  scat- 
tering the  music  of  the  bells,  and  one  after  another, 
lights  began  to  appear  along  the  sides  of  Mont 
Ventoux*  clooo  to  whose  summit  rose  the  ancient 
tQwcra  of  Trinquelagu-e.  The  neighboring  farmers 
were  going  to  mitfnight  mass  in  the  castle.  They 
climbed  the  hill  in  groups  of  five  and  six,  singing  as 
they  went,  the  father  leading,  a  lantern  in  his  hands, 
the  women  wrapped  in  their  great  brown  cloaks, 
in  which  their  children  too  cuddled,  and  sought 
shelter.  In  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and 
the  coldness  of  the  night,  all  these  good  people 
walked  briskly,  sustained  by  the  one  thought  that 
after  mass  was  done  there  would  be,  as  had  always 
been  the  yearly  custom,  a  table  spread  for  them  in 
the  kitchens  below.  jFrom  time  to  time,  upon  the 
rude  ascent,  some  nobleman's  carriage,  preceded 
by  torch-bearers,  was  sighted,  the  glass  gleaming 
in  the  moonlight ;  or  a  mule  would  be  seen  trotting 
past,  jingling  its  bells,  and  by  the  light  of  torches 
enveloped  in  vapor,  the  farmers  recognized  their 
bailiff,  and  saluted  him  as  he  passed  by. 

"  Good-evening,  good-evening,  Master  Arnoton." 
"  Good-evening,  good-evening,  my  children." 
The  night  was  clear,  the  stars  sparkled  frostily, 
the  wind  nipped  keenly,  and  the  fine  sleet  which 
clung  to  garments  without  wetting  them,  preserved 
former  traditions  of  a  Christmas  white  with  snow. 
Above,  on  the  hill,  loomed  the  castle,  their  visible 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  261 

goal,  an  enormous  pile,  with  towers  and  gables, 
with  the  belfry  of  the  chapel  rising  into  the  dark 
blue  sky,  and  a  host  of  tiny  lights  flashing,  moving 
to  and  fro,  waving  at  every  window,  and  appearing 
not  unlike  sparks  from  a  charred  mass  of  paper, 
when  seen  against  the  sombre  background  of  the 
building.  The  drawbridge  and  the  postern  passed, 
the  chapel  must  be  entered  by  crossing  the  outer 
courtyard,  full  of  coaches,  lackeys,  and  sedan-chairs, 
brightly  lighted  by  the  torch-fires  and  the  blaze 
from  the  kitchens ;  various  sounds  were  heard,  the 
jingling  of  spits  as  they  turned,  the  clatter  of 
saucepans,  the  clinking  of  glasses,  and  silver  moved 
about  in  preparing  the  repast.  There  was  wafted 
upward  a  warm  vapor  which  smelt  so  deliciously  of 
roast  meat,  of  the  savory  herbs  used  for  sauces 
formed  of  various  compounds,  that  the  farmers,  the 
chaplain,  the  bailiff,  and  every  one  else  observed : 
"  What  a  feast  there  will  be  after  mass  is  oveHJ 


II. 

TiNG-A-LlNG !    Ting-a-ling-a-ling ! 

The  midnight  mass  has  begun.  In  the  chapel 
of  the  castle,  a  miniature  cathedral,  with  its  vaulted 
roof  and  oaken  wainscoting  reaching  to  the  ceiling, 
all  the  tapestries  have  been  hung,  all  the  tapers 
lighted.  And  what  an  illustrious  assemblage ! 
what  toilets !  Chief  and  first  of  all,  in  the  sculp- 
tured stall  which  surrounds  the  chancel,  sits  the 
Sire  de  Trinquelague,  -arrayed  in  salmon-colored 


262  Monday  Tales, 

taffeta,  and  about  him  all  the  noble  lords  who  are 
his  invited  guests.  Opposite,  upon  a  velvet  prie- 
Dieu,  the  dowager  marchioness  takes  her  place, 
robed  in  flame-colored  brocade,  and  at  her  side  the 
youthful  Lady  of  Trinquelague,  with  a  high  lace 
head-dress,  ^aaffcitnjaccording  to  the  latest  fashion 
at  the  French  court.  ^Farther  down  sat  two  men 
clothed  in  black,  with  big  pointed  perruques  and 
smooth-shaven  faces.  These  were  the  bailiff,  mas- 
ter Thomas  Arnoton,  and  the  petty-notary,  master 
Ambroy,  two  dark  notes  in  that  bright-hued  har- 
mony of  silks  and  figured  damask.  Below  them 
sat  fat  major-domos,  pages,  huntsmen,  stewards, 
and  Dame  Barbe  herself,  all  her  keys  hanging  at 
her  side  upon  a  fine  silver  ringl  At  the  very  end 
of  the  chapel,  upon  the  benches,  sat  the  lower 
servants  and  the  farmers  with  their  families ;  and, 
last  of  all,  quite  close  to  the  door,  which  they 
opened  and  closed  discreetly,  came  the  lords  of 
the  kitchen,  the  scullions  themselves,  slipping  out 
between  the  making  of  two  sauces  to  catch  what 
they  could  of  the  mass,  bringing  a  whiff  of  the 
supper  into  the  church,  which  wore  a  festive  air, 
and  was  quite  warm  from  the  blaze  of  so  many 
tapers.  Was  it  the  sight  of  those  little  white  caps 
that  so  distracted  the  celebrant?  More  likely  it  was 
that  bell  of  Garrigou's,  that  mad  little  bell,  which 
tinkled  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  with  such  infernal 
speed,  and  seemed  to  say  every  second  :  "We  must 
hasten,  hasten  !  The  sooner  we  are  through  with 
this,  the  sooner  we  shall  be  seated  at  table."  For  it 
is  a  fact  that  every  time  that  wicked  little  bell  rang, 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  263 

the  chaplain  forgot  the  mass  and  thought  only  of  the 
supper.  He  fancied  he  saw  those  bustling  kitchens, 
the  fires  burning  like  those  of  a  forge,  the  warm 
vapor  rising  when  a  pot-lid  was  uncovered,  and  in 
that  vapor  two  magnificent  turkeys,  stuffed,  dis- 
tended, and  mottled  with  truffles,  jp^nd  he  seemed 
to  see  long  rows  of  little  pages  pass,  carrying  big 
platters  from  which  arose  a  tempting  steam,  and 
with  them  he  entered  the  great  hall  prepared  for 
the  feast.  Oh,  how  delicious  !  There  stands  an  im- 
mense table,  gleaming  with  lights,  laden  with  good 
things,  peacocks  dressed  with  their  feathers,  pheas- 
ants spreading  their  golden-brown  wings,  decanters 
the  color  of  rubies,  pyramids  of  fruit,  shining  amid 
green  branches,  and  those  marvellous  fishes  of 
which  Garrigou  had  made  mention  (ah!  was  it 
Garrigou?)  lying  upon  a  bed  of  fennel,  their  scales 
as  pearly  as  if  they  had  just  come  out  of  the  water, 
and  a  bunch  of  odorous  herbs  in  the  monsters' 
nostril^/  So  vivid  is  the  vision  of  these  marvellous 
things  that  it  seems  to  Dom  Balaguere  as  if  all 
those  wonderful  platters  were  placed  before  him 
upon  the  embroidered  altar-cloth ;  and  two  or  three 
times  instead  of  the  Dominus  Vobiscum  he  finds 
himself  almost  repeating  the  Betiedicite.  Except 
for  these  slight  mistakes,  the  worthy  man  gets 
through  the  service  very  conscientiously,  without 
skipping  a  line,  or  omitting  a  single  genuflection ; 
all  goes  very  well,  and  the  end  of  the  first  mass  is 
reached,  for  you  remember  that  on  Christmas-eve 
the  same  celebrant  must  say  three  consecutive 
masses. 


264  Monday   Tales. 

"  One  is  finished,"  whispered  the  chaplain  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  and  then,  without  losing  a  moment 
he  motions  to  his  clerk,  the  person  he  supposed  to 
be  his  clerk,  and  — 

Ting-a-ling !     Ling-a-ling-a-ling ! 

The  second  mass  is  beginning,  and  with  it  the 
sin  of  Dom  Balaguere.  "  Quick,  quick,  let  us 
hasten,"  cries  Garrigou's  bell,  with  its  little  shrill 
voice ;  and  this  time  the  wretched  officiant,  suc- 
cumbing completely  to  the  demon  of  gluttony, 
plunges  into  his  missal,  and  devours  its  pages  with 
all  the  avidity  of  his  over-excited  appetite.  He 
bows  frenetically,  rises  again,  hurriedly  makes  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  the  necessary  genuflections,  and 
curtails  all  his  gestures  that  he  may  finish  the 
sooner.  He  scarcely  extends  his  arm  when  he 
reaches  the  Gospel,  nor  beats  his  breast  at  the 
Confiteor.  There  is  a  race  between  himself  and 
his  clerk  to  see  which  one  can  go  the  fastest. 
Verses  and  responses  rush  headlong,  tumbling 
over  each  other  in  their  haste.  Words  are 
half  pronounced  through  closed  lips  to  save 
time,  and  nothing  is  heard  save  incomprehensible 
murmurs :  — 

"  Oremus  ps  .  .  .  ps  .  .  .  ps  .  .  .  " 

"  Mea  culpd  .  .  .  pd  .  .  .  pd  .  .  .  " 

Like  vintagers  hastily  crushing  the  contents  of 
the  vat,  both  of  them  plunge  through  the  Latin  of 
the  mass,  splashing  fragments  of  it  in  every  di- 
rection. 

"  Dom  .  .  .  scum!  "  says  Balaguere. 

"  Stutuo!"    Garrigou  responds:   and  all  the  time 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  265 

that  accursed  little  bell  is  there,  tinkling  in  their 
ears  like  the  little  round  bells  hung  about  post- 
horses  to  spur  them  to  a  gallop.  You  can  easily 
imagine  that  with  that  sound  jingling  in  the 
ears,  a  low  mass  is  celebrated  with  all  possible 
expedition. 

"  Two  !  "  says  the  chaplain,  panting,  and  without 
taking  time  to  regain  his  breath,  red  in  the  face 
and  dripping  with  perspiration,  he  tumbles  over 
the  altar-steps,  and  —  Ting-a-ling !  Ling-a-ling- 
a-ling !  The  third  mass  begins.  It  is  only  the 
work  of  a  few  moments  now,  and  then  the  dining- 
hall !  But,  alas !  as  the  moment  of  the  feast  ap- 
proaches, the  unfortunate  Balaguere  is  possessed 
by  a  perfect  frenzy  of  impatience  and  gluttonous 
longing.  The  vision  becomes  more  clearly  de- 
fined, the  golden  carps  and  roast  turkeys  seem  to 
be  there,  in  that  very  spot !  He  touches  them,  he 
■ —  oh !  Dieu  !  the  platters  are  steaming,  the  fra- 
grance of  the  wines  ascends,  and  that  little  bell 
cries  out  as  if  mad,  — 

"  Quicker,  quicker,  quicker  !  " 

But  how  is  it  possible  to  go  more  quickly?  His 
lips  scarcely  move.  He  no  longer  pronounces  a 
word.  Unless  he  should  cheat  the  good  Lord  com- 
pletely and  rob  Him  of  His  mass  ?  —  and  that  is 
what  the  wretched  man  does.  Yielding  to  one 
temptation  after  another,  he  begins  by  omitting  a 
verse,  then  two  more.  The  Epistle  is  too  long,  he 
does  not  end  it ;  he  merely  skims  the  Gospel,  omits 
the  Credo,  skips  the  Pater  Noster,  salutes  the  Preface 
at  a  distance,  and  with   spasmodic  jumps  rushes 


266  Monday   Tales. 

into  eternal  damnation,  followed  in  each  movement 
by  the  infamous  Garrigou  (vade  retro,  Satanas)  ; 
the  latter  seconds  his  efforts  with  marvellous 
understanding,  relieves  him  of  his  chasuble,  turns 
over  the  leaves,  two  at  a  time,  upsets  the  read- 
ing-desk, overturns  the  flagons,  and  rings  that 
bell  incessantly,  ever  more  and  more  loudly  and 
.rapidly. 

The  terror  depicted  on  the  faces  of  all  that  con- 
gregation cannot  be  described  !  Compelled  to  fol- 
low the  pantomime  of  the  priest,  in  that  mass  of 
which  they  understood  not  a  word,  some  rose 
whilst  others  knelt,  some  were  seated  whilst  others 
remained  standing,  and  the  various  phases  of  this 
singular  celebration  resulted,  upon  the  benches,  in 
absolute  confusion,  in  a  multitude  of  diverse  atti- 
tudes. The  Star  of  Bethlehem,  in  its  course  among 
the  paths  of  heaven,  moving  towards  the  lowly 
manger,  paled  with  fright  as  it  beheld  this  shame- 
ful sight. 

"The  abbe"  goes  too  fast.  One  cannot  follow 
him,"  murmurs  the  aged  dowager,  with  a  bewil- 
dered shake  of  her  head-dress.f"*Master  Arnoton, 
his  huge  steel-rimmed  spectacles  astride  his  nose, 
fumbles  in  his  prayer-book,  seeking  to  discover 
where  the  deuce  they  are.  But  at  heart  all  these 
good  people,  who  are  also  anticipating  the  mid- 
night feast,  are  not  at  all  sorry  that  th^mass  pro- 
ceeds at  such  break-neck  speed;  -aftd-whefpDom 
Balaguere  turns  with  radiant  face  towards  his  flock, 
crying  with  all  his  strength,  "  lie,  missa  est"  all 
within   the  chapel  answer,  as  with  one  voice,  and 


Yule- Tide  Stories.  267 

with  a  Deo  gratias  so  overjoyed,  so  full  of  enthusi- 
asm, that  one  might  well  believe  himself  seated 
already  at  table,  and  responding  to  the  first  toast 
of  the  Christmas-eve  feast. 


III. 

Five  minutes  later  that  assemblage  of  noblemen 
were  seated  in  the  great  hall,  the  chaplain  in  their 
midst.  The  castle,  brilliantly  lighted  throughout, 
re-echoed  with  songs,  cries,  laughter,  and  uproar ; 
the  venerable  Dom  Balaguere  planted  his  fork  in 
the  wing  of  a  grouse,  drowning  remorse  for  his  sin 
in  draughts  of  good  vin  du  pape,  and  fine  meat- 
gravies.  He  ate  and  drank  so  much,  this  poor 
holy  man,  that  he  died  during  the  night,  after  a 
terrible  attack,  and  without  having  a  single  mo- 
ment given  him  for  repentance.  When  on  the 
morrow  he  arrived  in  heaven,  which  was  still  ringing 
with  rumors  of  the  feasting  of  the  preceding  night, 
I  leave  you  to  imagine  what  was  his  reception. 

"  Depart  from  my  sight,  thou  faithless  Christian," 
said  the  sovereign  Judge  and  Master  of  us  all,  "  for 
thy  sin  is  so  great  that  it  blots  out  the  memory  of 
a  whole  life  of  virtue.  Ah  !  thou  hast  robbed  me 
of  a  midnight  mass.  Even  so !  thou  shalt  atone 
for  this  with  three  hundred  masses  in  its  stead,  and 
into  Paradise  thou  shalt  not  enter  till  thou  hast 
celebrated  within  thine  own  chapel,  and  on  Christ- 
mas-eve, three  hundred  masses,  which  shall  be  in 


268  Monday   Talcs. 

the  presence  of  all  those  who   have  sinned  with 
thee  and  because  of  thy  sin." 

And  that  is  the  true  legend  of  Dom  Balaguere  as 
it  is  told  to  this  day  in  the  land  of  olives.  The 
castle  of  Trinquelague  exists  no  longer  now,  but 
the  chapel  still  rises  erect  as  ever,  by  the  summit 
of  Mont  Ventoux,  amid  a  thicket  of  green  oaks. 
The  wind  beats  against  its  disjointed  door,  grass 
grows  upon  the  threshold,  birds  nest  about  its 
altar  and  in  the  embrasures  of  its  lofty  windows 
whose  colored  panes  disappeared  long  ago.  And 
yet  it  seems  that  every  year,  as  often  as  Christmas- 
eve  returns,  an  unearthly  light  wanders  among 
those  ruins,  and  on  their  way  to  mass  or  to  some 
Christmas-eve  merrymaking,  the  country-folk  see 
that  spectral  chapel  illumined  with  invisible  tapers, 
which  burn  in  the  open  air  and  cannot  be  quenched 
even  by  the  snow  or  the  wind,  lyou  may  smile  at 
this  if  you  wish,  but  a  vine-dresser  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, one  Garrigue  by  name,  and  without 
doubt  a  descendant  of  Garrigou,  assured  me  that 
one  Christmas- eve,  being  a  little  light-headed  after 
the  revel  of  the  evening,  he  was  lost  upon  the 
mountain  near  Trinquelague,  and  this  is  what  hap- 
pened :  up  to  one  o'clock  he  saw  nothing.  All 
was  silent,  wrapped  in  darkness,  inanimate.  Sud- 
denly, towards  midnight,  bells  began  to  chime 
in  the  belfry  above ;  it  was  an  old,  old  carillon, 
that  sounded  as  if  ten  leagues  distant.  Very 
soon,  upon  the  ascent  of  the  road,  Garrigue 
saw  torches  flickering,  waving  to  and  fro,  and 
borne    by    indistinct    shadowy     forms.      Beneath 


Yule -Tide  Stories.  269 

the  chapel-porch  footsteps  were  heard,  and  voices 
whispered* — 

"  Good-evening,  Master  Arnoton." 
"  Good-evening,  good-evening,  my  children." 
When  all  had  entered,  my  vine-dresser,  being 
very  brave,  approached  with  soft  steps,  and  beheld 
through  the  broken  door  a  singular  spectacle. 
All  the  forms  he  had  seen  pass  were  arranged 
about  the  choir,  in  the  ruined  nave,  as  if  the 
ancient  benches  still  existed.  Fair  ladies  in  bro- 
cade, and  lace-covered  coifs,  noble  lords,  embroi- 
dered from  head  to  foot,  peasants  in  flowered  coats 
such  as  our  grandsires  wore  were  there,  and  all 
looked  old,  faded,  dust-stained,  and  weary.  From 
time  to  time  night-birds,  the  habitual  guests  of  the 
chapel,  awakened  by  all  the  lights,  hovered  about 
these  candles,  whose  flame  ascended  straight 
towards  heaven,  but  seemed  indistinct  as  if  seen 
burning  through  a  film;  what  amused  Garrigue 
vastly  was  a  certain  personage  with  great  steel- 
rimmed  spectacles,  who  shook  his  high  black 
perruque  from  time  to  time,  —  one  of  those 
birds  clinging  to  it  firmly,  and  flapping  its  wings 
noiselessly. 

In  the  farther  end  of  the  chapel  was-  a  little  old 
man,  of  infantile  appearance,  on  his  knees  in  the 
midst  of  the  choir  and  shaking  desperately  a  little 
mute,  tongueless  bell,  while  a  priest,  robed  in  faded 
gold-cloth,  Weafc  back  and  forth  before  the  altar, 
reciting  orisons  of  which  none  beard  "a  single  word. 
Surely  this  Was  Dom  Balaguere,  reciting  his  third 
low  mass. 


270  Monday    Tales. 


THE   POPE   IS   DEAD. 

/  My  childhood  was  passed  in  a  large  provincial 
*  town  which  is  bisected  by  a  river  crowded  with 
crafts,  and  full  of  stir  and  bustle ;  there  I  acquired 
while  still  young  a  fondness  for  voyages,  and  the 
passion  for  a  nautical  life.  There  is  one  especial 
corner  of  the  quay,  near  a  certain  footbridge,  Saint 
Vincent,  it  is  called,  and  I  never  think  of  it,  even 
to-day,  without  emotion.  I  remember  that  sign 
nailed  to  the  end  of  a  yard,  "  Cornet,  boats  to  let" 
the  little  staircase  which  went  down  even  to 
the  water,  slippery  and  black  from  frequent  wet- 
tings, the  flotilla  of  little  boats,  freshly  painted  with 
gay  colors,  standing  in  a  row  at  the  foot  of  the 
ladder,  rocking  gently  side  by  side,  as  if  the 
charming  names  which  decorated  the  stern  in  white 
letters,  "  The  Humming-bird"  "  The  Swallow" 
really  lent  the  boats  themselves  new  buoyancy/ 
Long  oars  glistening  with  white  paint  were  dry- 
ing against  the  wall,  and  among  them  walked  Father 
Cornet  with  his  paint-pot  and  big  paint-brushes ; 
his  face  was  tanned,  furrowed,  and  wrinkled  with  in- 
numerable tiny  depressions,  like  the  river  itself 
when  an  evening  breeze  springs  up.  Oh !  Father 
Cornet !  That  worthy  man  was  the  tempter  of  my 
childhood,  my  joy  and  sorrow  combined,  my  sin, 


The  Pope  is  Dead.  271 

my  remorse.  How  many  crimes  be  led  me  to 
commit  with  those  boats  of  his  !  I  played  truant 
from  school,  I  sold  my  books.  What  would  I  not 
have  sold  for  an  afternoon's  boating ! 

All  my  exercise-books  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
my  jacket  off,  my  hat  pushed  back,  a  delicious 
breeze  from  the  water  fanning  my  hair,  I  pulled  the 
oars  firmly,  my  brows  knitted  in  a  frown,  trying  to 
cultivate  the  air  of  an  old  sea-dog.  As  long  as  I 
was  in  the  town  I  kept  to  the  middle  of  the  river,  at 
equal  distance  from  either  bank,  where  the  old  sea- 
dog  might  have  been  recognized  !  What  a  sense 
of  triumph  I  felt,  mingling  with  the  movement  of 
boats  and  rafts  and  floats  loaded  with  wood,  steam- 
boats moving  side  by  side,  but  never  touching  each 
other,  though  separated  merely  by  a  slender  strip 
of  foam !  And  then  there  were  heavier  boats 
which  had  to  turn  about  to  follow  the  current, 
while  a  host  of  smaller  ones  were  obliged  to  move 
out  of  their  way. 

Suddenly  the  wheels  of  a  steamboat  would  be- 
gin to  churn  the  water  around  me ;  a  huge  shadow 
would  loom  above  me ;  it  was  the  bow  of  a  boat 
loaded  with  apples.  "  Look  out,  youngster,"  a 
hoarse  voice  shouted ;  dripping  with  perspiration 
I  tugged  away,  entangled  in  that  current  of  life 
upon  the  river  which  mingled  incessantly  with 
the  life  of  the  street  at  every  bridge  and  foot- 
bridge, while  reflections  from  passing  omnibuses 
darkened  the  water  as  I  pulled  my  oars. 

The  current  of  the  river  was  very  strong  about 
the   arches  of  the    bridge,  and    there   were    such 


272  Monday   Tales. 

eddies,  such  whirlpools,  among  them  that  famous 
one  to  which  the  name  of  "Death  the  Deceiver" 
had  been  given.  You  can  understand  that  it  was 
no  light  matter  for  a  child  to  pilot  himself  through 
that  part  of  the  river,  pulling  with  the  arms  of  a 
twelve-year-old,  and  no  one  to  hold  the  rudder. 

Sometimes  I  chanced  to  encounter  the  chain. 
As  quickly  as  possible  I  would  catch  on  to  the  end 
of  the  line  of  boats  as  it  was  tugged  along,  and 
letting  my  oars  lie  motionless,  spread  like  wings 
about  to  alight,  I  allowed  myself  to  be  borne  on- 
ward by  that  swift,  silent  movement  which  broke 
the  river's  surface  into  long  ribbons  of  foam,  while 
the  trees  along  the  bank  and  the  houses  upon  the 
quay  glided  by  us.  A  long,  long  distance  ahead 
I  could  hear  the  monotonous  turning  of  the  screw, 
and  on  one  of  the  boats,  where  a  tiny  thread  of 
smoke  was  rising  from  a  low  chimney,  I  could 
hear  a  dog's  bark ;  at  such  times  I  really  fancied 
that  I  was  aboard  ship,  and  off  for  a  long  cruise. 

Unfortunately,  those  meetings  with  that  line  of 
boats  were  rare.  Most  of  the  time  I  rowed  and 
rowed,  through  the  hours  when  the  sun  was  hottest. 
Oh,  that  noonday  sun  beating  straight  down  upon 
the  river ;  I  can  still  seem  to  feel  it  burning  me ! 
Everything  glistened  beneath  those  fiery  rays.  In 
that  dazzling,  sonorous  atmosphere,  which  rested, 
a  floating  mass,  above  the  waves  vibrating  with 
their  every  movement,  with  every  dip  of  my  oars, 
and  from  the  fisherman's  lines  raised,  dripping, 
from  the  water,  I  could  see  vivid  gleams,  as  from 
some   surface  of  polished    silver.     Then    I  would 


The  Pope  is  Dead.  273 

close  my  eyes  while  I  rowed  on.  From  the  energy 
of  my  efforts  and  the  bound  of  the  waves  beneath 
my  boat,  I  thought  for  the  moment  that  I  must  be 
moving  very  rapidly,  but  upon  raising  my  head  to 
look,  I  was  sure  to  see  the  same  tree,  the  same  wall 
facing  me  from  the  river-bank. 

At  last,  completely  exhausted,  covered  with 
perspiration,  crimson  with  heat,  I  succeeded  in 
leaving  the  city  behind  me.  The  din  that  came 
from  bath-houses,  washerwomen's  boats,  and  boat- 
landings,  grew  fainter;  the  bridges  were  farther 
apart  upon  the  widening  river.  A  few  suburban 
gardens  and  a  factory  chimney  were  reflected 
here  and  there.  On  the  horizon  the  fringe  of 
verdant  islands  fluttered,  and  now,  unable  to  go 
any  farther,  I  would  pull  close  to  the  bank;  there, 
in  the  midst  of  the  reeds,  full  of  buzzing  life,  over- 
come with  the  sun,  fatigue,  and  that  oppressive 
heat  which  rose  from  the  water  dotted  with  great 
yellow  flowers,  the  old  sea-dog  would  have  an  at- 
tack of  the  nose-bleed,  which  lasted  for  hours. 
My  voyages  always  ended  with  that  catastrophe ; 
but  then  —  one  must  not  ask  too  much !  De- 
lightful enough  these  excursions  were  to  me. 

But  the  terrible  part  was  the  return,  the  moment 
when  I  must  enter  the  house.  No  matter  how  fast 
I  pulled  the  oars  as  I  rowed  homeward,  I  always 
arrived  too  late,  and  long  after  school  was  out. 
Impressed  with  the  decline  of  day,  the  sight  of  the 
first  few  gaslights  twinkling  through  the  mist,  the 
Soldiers'  Retreat,  my  apprehension  and  remorse 
grew  ever  greater  as  I  neared  home.     I  envied  the 

18 


274  Monday   Talcs. 

people  I  met,  tranquilly  turning  homeward.  My 
head  dull  and  heavy,  full  of  the  effects  of  sun  and 
water,  a  murmur  of  sea-shells  in  my  ears,  I  ran  on, 
my  face  already  reddening  with  the  lie  I  was  about 
to  tell. 

For  on  each  occasion  it  was  necessary  to  con- 
front that  terrible  "  Where  were  you  ?  "  which 
awaited  me  upon  the  threshold.  It  was  that  ques- 
tion which  terrified  me  most,  upon  my  home-com- 
ing. Standing  upon  the  stairs  I  must  answer  upon 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  always  have  a  story 
ready,  something  to  say  so  astounding,  so  over- 
whelming, that  surprise  must  cut  short  all  further 
questioning.  This  left  me  time  to  enter,  to  regain 
breath.  And  for  the  sake  of  that  moment  I 
counted  no  cost  too  dear.  I  invented  sinister 
events,  revolutions,  terrible  things ;  one  whole  side 
of  the  city  was  burning,  the  railway  bridge  had 
collapsed,  and  fallen  into  the  river  !  But  the  most 
startling  of  all  my  inventions  was  the  following : 

That  evening  I  reached  home  very  late.  My 
mother,  who  had  awaited  me  a  whole  hour,  was  on 
the  watch,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairway. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  "  she  exclaimed. 

Tell  me  who  can  from  what  source  children  ob- 
tain the  impish  ideas  that  enter  their  heads.  I  had 
prepared  no  excuse,  discovered  none,  —  for  I  had 
returned  too  quickly.  Suddenly  a  wild  thought 
occurred  to  me.  I  knew  that  dear  mother  was 
very  pious,  most  zealous  of  Roman  Catholics,  and 
I  answered  her  with  the  breathless  haste  born  of  a 
deep  emotion,  — 


The  Pope  is  Dead.  275 

"  Oh,  mamma  !     If  you  knew ! !' 

"  Knew  what?     Has  anything  happened ?  " 

"  The  pope  is  dead." 

"  The  pope  is  dead  !  "  repeated  my  poor  mother, 
and  very  pale  she  leaned  against  the  wall. 

I  passed  quickly  into  my  own  room,  somewhat 
frightened  at  my  success,  and  the  enormity  of  the 
lie ;  and  yet  I  had  the  courage  to  persist  in  it  to 
the  end.  I  still  remember  that  subdued  funereal 
evening ;  my  father  looked  very  grave,  my  mother 
was  prostrated.  They  talked  around  the  table  in 
low  voices.  I  kept  my  eyes  lowered  all  the  while ; 
but  my  escapade  had  been  so  completely  forgotten 
in  the  general  sorrow  that  no  one  thought  further 
of  it. 

Each  one  was  pleased  to  call  to  mind  some  virtu- 
ous trait  of  that  poor  Pius  IX. ;  then,  by  degrees, 
the  conversation  wandered,  and  reverted  to  Papal 
History.  Aunt  Rose  began  to  speak  of  Pius  VII., 
whom  she  recalled  very  well,  having  seen  him  when 
he  passed  through  the  Midi,  in  the  back  of  a  post- 
chaise,  between  gendarmes.  They  recalled  that 
famous  scene  with  the  Emperor:  Come'diante !  .  .  . 
trage'diante !  .  .  .  For  the  hundredth  time  I  heard 
them  describe  that  terrible  scene,  ever  with  the  same 
intonations,  the  same  gestures,  with  all  those  stereo- 
typed expressions  which  are  a  part  of  family  tra- 
dition, as  such  bequeathed  to  the  next  generation, 
remaining  with  it,  and  like  some  monastic  history, 
preserving  all  their  puerilities  and  localisms. 

Notwithstanding,  the  incident  never  appeared  to 
me  more  interesting  than  upon  this  occasion. 


276  Monday   Tales. 

With  hypocritical  sighs,  with  questionings,  and 
an  assumption  of  interest,  I  listened  to  every  word, 
but  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  to  myself,  — 

"  To-morrow  morning,  when  they  learn  the  pope 
is  not  dead,  they  will  be  so  glad  that  no  one  will 
have  the  heart  to  scold  me." 

And  as  I  thought  of  that,  my  eyes  closed  in 
spite  of  my  efforts  to  keep  them  open,  and  visions 
of  tiny  boats,  painted  blue,  appeared,  and  every 
nook  along  the  Saone  drowsing  beneath  the  heat, 
and  argyronHes  darting  forth  their  long  feet  in 
every  direction,  cutting  the  glassy  water  like 
diamond-points. 


«?. 


Gastronomic  Scenes.  277 


GASTRONOMIC   SCENES. 

BOUILLABAISSE. 

We  were  sailing  along  the  Sardinian  coast 
towards  La  Madeleine  Island.  It  was  an  early 
morning  excursion.  Our  oarsmen  pulled  slowly; 
leaning  over  the  side  of  our  boat,  I  looked  at  the 
sea,  transparent- as  some  spring,  the  sunlight  diving 
to  the  very  bottom.  Medusae  and  starfish  sprawled 
among  the  seaweed.  Big  lobsters  lay  motionless, 
their  long  claws  buried  in  the  fine  sand.  All  these 
might  be  seen  at  a  depth  of  from  eighteen  to  twenty 
feet,  in  a  sort  of  aquarium,  clear  as  crystal.  At 
the  bow  of  the  boat  a  fisherman,  standing  with  a 
long  cleft  reed  in  his  hand,  made  a  sign  to  the  oars- 
men, "  Softly,  softly !  "  and  suddenly  between  the 
points  of  his  fork  he  held  a  beautiful  lobster  sus- 
pended, spreading  out  its  claws  with  a  terrified 
movement,  though  still  asleep.  At  my  side  another 
sailor  let  his  line  drop  upon  the  water's  surface  in 
the  wake  of  the  boat,  and  brought  in  a  haul  of 
marvellous  little  fishes,  which  as  they  died  were 
colored  with  a  thousand  bright  and  changing  tints 
—  a  death-agony  beheld  through  a  prism. 
/The  fishing  ended,  we  landed  among  the  high, 
gray  rocks.     A    fire    was    quickly  kindled,  which 


278  Monday   Tales. 

burned  with  a  pale  light  in  the  bright  sunshine; 
bread  cut  in  big  slices  was  placed  upon  small  plates 
of  red  earthen-ware,  and  we  sat  about  the  soup- 
kettle,  plates  held  out  and  nostrils  distended. 
Was  it  because  of  the  landscape,  the  sunshine,  or 
that  horizon  of  sea  and  sky?  I  have  never  eaten 
anything  that  tasted  better  than  that  lobster  bouilla- 
baisse. And  afterwards  that  delightful  siesta  upon 
the  sand,  —  a  slumber  filled  with  the  lulling  mur- 
murs of  the  sea,  while  the  wavelets,  as  if  covered 
with  innumerable  shining  scales,  flash  and  glitter, 
even  although  the  eyes  are  closed. 


AIOLI. 

One  might  have  almost  believed  it  to  be  the  hut 
of  some  fisherman  of  Theocritus  on  the  Sicilian 
coast ;  but  the  scene  was  merely  in  Provence,  on 
the  island  of  Camargue,  the  home  of  a  river-keeper. 
A  reed  cabin,  nets  hanging  upon  the  walls,  guns, 
oars,  apparently  the  tackle  of  a  trapper,  of  one  who 
hunts  both  on  land  and  sea. 

Before  the  open  door,  against  which  appeared  a 
level  landscape  that  seemed  even  vaster  when  the 
gale  swept  across  it,  the  wife  of  the  river-keeper 
was  skinning  some  fine  eels,  which  were  still  alive. 
The  fish  wriggled  in  the  sunlight,  and  yonder,  in 
the  wan  light  of  the  squall,  slender  trees  were 
bending  like  fugitives  before  the  storm,  the  white 
surfaces  of  their  leaves  exposed.     Bits  of  marsh, 


Gastronomic  Scenes.  279 

Reaming  here  and  there  among  the  reeds,  looked 
ike  fragments  of  a  broken  mirror.  Farther  away 
1  long  and  shining  line  bounded  the  horizon.  It 
vas  the  Lake  of  Vaccares. 

Within  the  hut,  a  fire  of  twigs  was  burning 
>rightly  and  crackling  loudly;  the  keeper  was 
eligiously  pounding  cloves  of  garlic  in  a  mortar, 
ind  adding  olive-oil  drop  by  drop.  Later  we  ate 
xioli  upon  our  eels,  seated  on  high  stools  before  a 
.mail  wooden  table,  in  that  snug  little  cabin  where 
:he  largest  space  of  all  was  reserved  for  the  ladder 
vhich  climbed  to  the  loft ;  and  one  felt  that  beyond 
md  about  that  tiny  room  lay  the  horizon  swept  by 
:he  gale,  and  hurrying  flocks  of  wandering  birds,  — 
:hat  all  the  encircling  space  might  be  measured  by 
the  bells  of  herds,  of  horses  and  cattle,  their  ring- 
ing at  first  loud  and  sonorous,  and  then  sounding 
more  faintly  in  the  distance,  till  the  last  notes  were 
lost,  borne  away  in  a  gust  of  the  mistral. 


COUSCOUS. 

It  was  in  Algeria ;  we  were  visiting  an  aga  of 
the  plain  of  Chelif ;  in  the  great  magnificent  tent 
pitched  for  us  before  the  aga's  house  we  watched 
the  night  descend,  clad  in  hues  of  half-mourning, 
dark  violet  at  first,  which  deepened  into  the  purple 
of  a  magnificent  sunset;  through  the  freshness 
of  the  evening  a  Kabyle  candlestick  of  palm- 
wood  was  lighted  in  the  centre   of  the  half-open 


280  Monday   Tales. 

tent,  and  the  motionless  flame  from  its  branches 
attracted  night  insects,  who  hovered  about  it  with  a 
rustling  of  timid  wings.  Squatted  upon  mats  we 
ate  in  silence ;  whole  sheep,  all  dripping  in  butter, 
were  brought  in  at  the  end  of  poles,  honeyed  pastry 
and  perfumed  confections  followed,  and,  last  of  all, 
a  great  wooden  platter,  upon  which  were  chickens 
in  the  golden  semolina  of  couscous. 

Meanwhile  night  had  fallen.  Over  the  neighbor- 
ing hills  the  moon  was  rising,  a  tiny  Oriental  cres- 
cent, near  which  a  solitary  star  nestled.  Out  of 
doors  a  big  bonfire  was  flaming  in  front  of  the  tent, 
surrounded  by  dancers  and  musicians.  I  recall  a 
gigantic  negro,  quite  naked  but  for  the  ancient 
tunic  of  the  light  regiment;  he  jumped  about, 
causing  long  shadows  to  dart  all  over  the  tent. 
This  cannibal  dance,  those  small  Arabian  drums, 
rattling  breathlessly  when  the  beat  was  hastened, 
the  sharp  barking  of  jackals  responding  from  every 
side  of  the  plain,  —  all  these  things  made  the  ob- 
server feel  that  he  was  in  a  savage  country.  How- 
ever, in  the  interior  of  the  tent,  that  refuge  of  these 
nomadic  tribes,  which  resembles  a  motionless  sail 
upon  a  waveless  sea,  the  aga  in  his  white  woollen 
burnouses,  seemed  to  me  an  apparition  of  primi- 
tive times,  and  as  he  gravely  swallowed  his  cous- 
cous, I  was  wondering  whether  this  national 
Arabian  dish  were  not  indeed  that  miraculous 
manna  of  the  Hebrews  of  which  so  much  is  written 
in  the  Bible. 


Gastronomic  Scenes.  281 


POLENTA. 


THE  Corsican  coast,  an  evening  in  November. 
We  landed  beneath  torrents  of  rain,  in  a  part  of 
the  country  which  was  completely  deserted.  Some 
charcoal-burners  of  Lucca  made  room  for  us  at 
their  fire.  Then  a  native  shepherd,  a  species  of 
savage,  clad  entirely  in  goatskins,  invited  us  to 
eat  polenta  in  his  hut.  We  entered,  stooping  and 
making  ourselves  as  small  as  possible,  a  hovel 
where  it  was  impossible  to  stand  upright.  In  the 
centre  some  bits  of  green  wood  are  kindling,  be- 
tween four  blackened  stones.  The  smoke  which 
escapes  from  this  fire  mounts  towards  a  hole  cut  in 
the  top  of  the  hut;  then  it  spreads  everywhere, 
driven  about  by  the  wind  and  rain.  A  tiny  lamp, 
the  caleil  of  Provence,  blinks  timidly  in  this  stifling 
atmosphere.  A  woman  and  children  appear  from 
time  to  time,  when  the  smoke  clears  a  little,  and 
hidden  away  somewhere  a  pig  is  heard  grunting. 
Some  rubbish  left  from  a  shipwreck  is  seen,  a 
bench  made  of  bits  of  vessels,  a  wooden  packing- 
case  with  lettering  upon  it,  the  painted  wooden 
head  of  a  mermaid  torn  from  some  prow,  the  paint 
washed  away  by  the  sea- water. 

Polenta  is  frightful  stuff.  The  badly  crushed 
chestnuts  have  a  mouldy  taste ;  it  would  seem  that 
they  had  remained  too  long  under  the  trees  dur- 
ing heavy  rains.  The  national  bruccio  followed  the 
polenta,  with  a  wild  taste  reminding  one  of  vagrant 


282  Monday   Talcs, 

goats.  In  this  spot  the  very  climax  of  Italian  pov- 
erty is  seen.  Neither  house  nor  home.  The  cli- 
mate is  so  favorable,  a  livelihood  so  easily  gained  ! 
Nothing  more  is  needed  than  a  retreat  for  rainy- 
weather  days.  And  what  does  it  matter  that  the 
place  is  smoky,  that  the  lamp  burns  dimly,  when  a 
house  is  regarded  merely  as  a  prison,  and  the 
only  life  that  seems  life  at  all  is  lived  in  the  open 
sunshine-* 


A  Sea- side  Harvest  283 


A  SEA-SIDE   HARVEST. 

We  had  been  travelling  across  the  plain  since 
morning  in  quest  of  the  sea,  which  constantly 
eluded  us,  in  those  winding  paths,  headlands,  and 
peninsulas  which  form  the  coast  of  Britanny. 

From  time  to  time  a  bit  of  marine  blue  would 
appear  on  the  horizon,  like  a  patch  of  sky,  though 
deeper  in  tint  and  less  stable ;  but  advancing  along 
the  capricious  meanderings  of  those  roads,  which 
made  one  call  up  a  picture  of  ambuscades  and 
Chouan  warfare,  the  momentary  glimpse  of  the  sea 
was  soon  shut  out  again.  At  length  we  arrived  at 
a  tiny  village,  rustic  and  ancient  in  appearance, 
with  gloomy  streets  as  narrow  as  if  built  in  Alge- 
rian fashion,  and  full  of  dung,  geese,  cattle,  and 
swine.  The  houses  resembled  huts,  with  their  low 
arched  doorways,  encircled  with  white  and  marked 
with  lime  crosses;  the  shutters  were  firmly  fast- 
ened by  long  transverse  bars,  a  custom  seen  only 
in  windswept  countries.  And  yet  this  little  Breton 
town  looked  sheltered  enough;  the  air  was  still, 
and  even  stifling.  One  might  have  believed  him- 
self twenty  leagues  inland.  But  suddenly,  as  we 
came  upon  the  square  in  front  of  the  church,  we 
found  ourselves  enveloped  in  a  dazzling  light,  felt 


284  Monday   Tales. 

a  tremendous  sweep  of  air,  and  in  our  ears  was  the 
sound  of  illimitable  waves.  The  ocean  spread  be- 
fore us,  the  immense,  infinite  ocean,  with  its  salt, 
fresh  scent,  and  that  strong  breeze  which  rises 
from  each  bounding  wave  as  the  tide  comes  in. 
The  village  rose  before  us,  nestling  along  the  edge 
of  the  quay,  the  main  street  continued  by  the 
jetty,  till  it  reached  a  tiny  port  where  fishing-boats 
were  moored.  Close  to  the  waves  the  belfry  of 
the  church  rises  like  a  sentinel,  and  around  it, 
ai  the  very  extremity  of  this  bit  of  the  world,  is 
the  cemetery  with  its  crosses  leaning  forward,  its 
wild  waste-grass,  and  its  low.  crumbling  wall, 
against  which  stone  benches  are  placed. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  delightful  or 
secluded  place  than  this  little  village  hidden  away 
in  the  midst  of  the  rocks,  and  interesting  both  as  a 
pastoral  and  a  bit  of  marine  landscape.  All  of  them 
fishers  or  laborers,  the  people  of  the  neighborhood 
have  a  rude,  scarcely  prepossessing  exterior.  They 
do  not  invite  you  to  be  their  guest,  quite  the  con- 
trary. But  by  degrees  they  yield  to  humanizing 
influences,  and  you  are  surprised  to  find,  in  spite  of 
their  rough  welcome,  that  these  people  are  simple- 
hearted  and  kindly.  They  resemble  their  land, 
that  stubborn  and  rocky  soil,  so  mineral  that  the 
roads  even,  when  exposed  to  the  sun,  have  a  black- 
ish hue,  spangled  with  glittering  particles  of  cop- 
per or  of  tin.  This  rocky  soil  along  the  coast,  bare 
and  exposed,  looks  wild,  austere,  and  bristling. 
There  are  places  where  it  has  fallen  down  and 
caved   in ;    there  are  perpendicular    cliffs,  grottos 


A  Sea-side  Harvest  285 

hollowed  out  by  the  waves,  which  rush  in  engulfing 
them  with  a  roar  of  waters.  When  the  tide  has 
gone  out  the  rocks  appear  again,  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  see  their  monstrous  backs  emerging  from  the 
waves,  glistening  and  white  with  foam,  like  gigantic 
cachalots  run  aground. 

Only  a  few  steps  away  from  the  water's  edge, 
the  scene  affords  a  singular  contrast;  fields  of 
wheat  and  lucerne,  and  vineyards  extend,  inter- 
secting each  other,  separated  by  little  walls  as 
high  as  hedgerows,  and  green  with  brambles. 
The  eye  wearied  even  to  dizziness  at  sight  of  those 
tall  cliffs,  those  foaming  breakers,  those  chasms 
into  which  one  must  descend  with  ropes  fastened 
to  the  rocks,  can  find  rest  in  the  midst  of  the 
unbroken  surface  of  the  plain,  and  the  friendlier, 
more  familiar  aspects  of  nature.  The  least  detail 
of  the  rural  scene  is  heightened  when  seen  against 
the  gray-green  background  of  the  sea,  which  pre- 
sents itself  at  every  turn  of  the  road,  and  appears 
between  the  houses,  through  each  cranny  of  a 
wall,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  street.  Even  the 
crowing  of  the  cock  sounds  clearer  when  sur- 
rounded by  so  much  space.  But  what  is  most 
beautiful  of  all  is  the  harvest-gathering  at  the  sea- 
side, the  golden  stacks  piled  up  so  close  to  the 
blue  waves,  the  threshing-floors  where  the  rhyth- 
mic beat  of  the  flail  is  heard,  those  groups  of 
women  on  the  steep  rocks,  seeking  which  way  the 
wind  blows,  and  winnowing  the  wheat  between 
their  outstretched  hands  with  gestures  of  evoca- 
tion.    The  grains  rain  down  with  a  regular,  brisk 


286  Monday   Tales, 

movement,  while  the  sea-breeze  carries  away  the 
chaff  and  sets  it  whirling.  This  winnowing  goes 
on  upon  the  square  in  front  of  the  church,  upon 
the  quay,  as  far  as  the  jetty  itself,  where  great 
fish-nets  are  spread  out  to  dry,  their  meshes  all 
entangled  with  aquatic  plants. 

Meanwhile  there  is  another  harvest  at  the  foot  of 
the  rocks,  in  that  neutral  space  invaded  each  day, 
and  then  left  bare,  by  the  tide.  Here  the  seaweed 
is  gathered.  Each  wave,  as  it  breaks  in  foam  upon 
the  shore,  leaves  its  traces  in  an  undulating  line  of 
that  marine  vegetation  known  as  goemon  or  varccJi. 
When  the  wind  blows,  these  algae  are  carried  the 
entire  length  of  the  beach  with  a  rustling  sound, 
and  as  far  as  the  ebb  of  the  sea  leaves  the  rocks 
uncovered,  these  long,  wet  masses  of  sea-foliage 
are  deposited  everywhere.  They  are  gathered 
into  great  heaps  along  the  coast  and  piled  up  in 
dark-purplish  stacks,  which  preserve  all  the  hues 
of  the  waves,  and  the  bizarre  iris-tints  of  dead 
fishes  and  faded  vegetation.  When  the  stack  is 
dry  it  is  burned,  and  the  soda  is  extracted  from  it. 

This  singular  harvest  is  gathered  by  the  bare- 
legged villagers  at  low  tide  among  the  innumer- 
able limpid  little  pools  which  the  ebbing  waters 
leave  behind;  men,  women,  and  children  appear 
among  the  slippery  rocks,  armed  with  immense 
rakes.  As  they  pass,  terrified  crabs  attempt  to 
escape,  crawl  into  hiding-places,  spreading  out 
their  claws,  and  shrimps  with  transparent  bodies 
can  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  ruffled 
water.     After  the  seaweed  is  obtained,  it  is  gath- 


A  Sea-side  Harvest.  287 

ered  into  piles  and  loaded  upon  wagons  to  which 
yoked  oxen  are  harnessed ;  they  cross  the  hilly 
and  broken  ground  laboriously,  with  heads  bent. 
Wherever  the  eye  chances  to  glance,  these  wagons 
are  seen;  sometimes  in  spots  that  seem  almost 
inaccessible,  which  are  reached  only  by  abrupt 
paths,  a  man  will  appear  leading  by  the  bridle  a 
horse  loaded  with  drooping,  dripping  vegetation. 
You  will  also  see  children  carrying  upon  sticks, 
crossed  to  form  a  handbarrow,  their  gleanings  from 
this  marine  harvest. 

All  this  forms  a  melancholy  but  fascinating 
picture.  Terrified  sea-gulls  are  seen  circling  about 
their  eggs,  and  screaming.  The  menace  of  the  sea 
is  here,  and  what  adds  a  final  touch  of  solemnity  to 
the  scene  is  the,  silence  which  broods  about  every- 
thing, the  same  silence  that  marks  a  gleaning  of  the 
fruits  of  the  soil,  the  silence  of  activity,  full  of  the 
efforts  of  a  people  struggling  against  rebellious  and 
parsimonious  nature.  A  call  to  the  cattle,  a  sharp 
"  t-r-r-r  "  echoing  through  the  grottos,  is  the  only 
sound  that  is  heard.  The  spectator  seems  to  have 
encountered  some  Trappist  community,  one  of  those 
monastic  brotherhoods  which  labor  in  the  open  air 
with  a  vow  of  everlasting  silence  imposed  upon  them. 
Those  who  are  directing  the  work  never  look 
about,  even  to  so  much  as  glance  at  you  when  you 
pass ;  the  cattle  alone  fix  their  great,  placid  eyes 
upon  you.  And  yet  this  is  not  a  sad  people,  and 
when  the  Sabbath  comes  they  know  how  to  make 
merry,  and  dance  their  old  Breton  dances.  Of  an 
evening,  towards  eight  o'clock,  they  assemble  at 


288  Monday   Tales. 

the  end  of  the  quay,  before  the  church  and  the 
cemetery.  That  word  "  cemetery  "  has  a  dismal 
sound,  but  the  spot  itself,  if  you  should  see  it, 
looks  anything  but  dismal.  Not  a  boxwood-tree, 
nor  a  single  yew,  nor  monuments  of  marble ;  noth- 
ing here  is  formal  or  solemn.  Only  crosses  are 
seen,  the  same  names  repeated  again  and  again 
as  in  all  small  settlements  where  the  inhabitants 
are  closely  allied.  The  tall  grass  grows  every- 
where with  equal  favor,  and  the  walls  are  so  low 
that  the  children  can  climb  over  them  in  their 
play,  and  upon  the  day  of  an  interment  the  spec- 
tator from  without  can  see  the  kneeling  mourners 
within. 

At  the  foot  of  those  low  walls  the  aged  come  to 
sit  in  the  sun,  spinning  or  dozing,  upon  one  side 
of  them  that  wild  and  silent  enclosure,  in  front  of 
them  the  eternal  and  restless  sea. 

And  there,  too,  the  young  gather  to  dance  of  a 
Sabbath  evening.  When  the  light  gleams  faintly 
above  the  waves  along  the  jetty,  groups  of  youths 
and  maids  approach.  Rings  are  formed,  and  a 
shrill  voice  rises,  at  first  alone,  repeating  a  line 
whose  rhythm  is  easily  caught,  and  summoning  the 
chorus : — 

"  C'est  dans  la  cour  du  Plat-d'£tain." 
All  the  voices  repeat  together,  — 

"  C'est  dans  la  cour  du  Plat-d'Etain." 

The  roundel  grows  livelier,  one  catches  glimpses 
of  white  caps,  their  flaps  whirling  about  like  butter- 


A  Sea-side  Harvest  289 

flies'  wings.  Almost  invariably  the  wind  snatches 
and  bears  off  half  of  the  words,  — 

".  .  .  perdu  mon  serviteur  .  .  . 
.  .  .  portera  mes  couleurs  .  .  ." 

the  song  all  the  more  naTve  and  charming,  be- 
cause one  catches  only  fragments  of  it,  with  those 
odd  elisions  so  common  in  folk-songs  set  to  dance- 
tunes  with  more  regard  for  the  rhythm  of  the  meas- 
ure than  thought  for  the  meaning  of  the  words. 
With  no  other  light  than  the  feeble  ray  of  the 
moon,  the  dance  seems  fantastic.  All  is  gray, 
black,  or  white,  in  that  neutrality  of  tint  which  ac- 
companies things  dreamed  about,  not  seen.  By 
degrees,  as  the  moon  rises,  the  crosses  in  the 
cemetery,  especially  that  of  High  Calvary,  which 
is  at  one  side,  lengthen  till  they  seem  to  touch 
the  ring  of  dancers  and  mingle  with  them.  At 
last  ten  o'clock  rings.  The  dancers  separate. 
Each  returns  homeward,  along  the  lanes  of  the 
little  village,  which  wears  a  strange  aspect  at  this 
moment,  with  its  broken  steps  of  outer  staircases, 
roof  corners,  and  a  confused  mass  of  bent,  tumble- 
down, open  sheds,  black  with  the  dense  gloom 
of  night. 

We  pass  along  old  walks,  just  grazed  by  fig 
trees,  and,  as  we  walk  on,  crushing  underfoot  the 
empty  chaff  from  the  winnowed  wheat,  the  scent 
of  the  sea  comes  to  us,  mingling  with  the  warm 
perfume  of  the  harvest,  and  the  breath  of  cattle 
asleep  in  the  stables. 

The  house  where  we  are  living  is  in  the  country, 
19 


?.go  Monday  Tales. 

a  short  distance  from  the  village.  As  we  return, 
we  can  see  along  the  road,  just  above  the  hedges, 
beacons  gleaming  from  all  parts  of  the  peninsula,  a 
flash-light,  a  revolving,  a  stationary  one ;  and  as  we 
cannot  now  see  the  ocean,  all  these  watch-towers 
rising  above  yonder  black  reefs  seem  lost  in  this 
peaceful  country. 


Emotions  of  a  Young  Red  Partridge.     291 


THE  EMOTIONS  OF  A  YOUNG  RED 
PARTRIDGE. 

You  know  that  partridges  travel  in  flocks,  and- 
make  their  nests  together  in  the  hollows  of  the 
fields,  so  that  they  may  be  able  to  disappear  at  the 
least  alarm,  an  entire  flock  dispersing  like  a  hand- 
ful of  wheat  scattered  by  the  sower.  Our  own 
covey  is  large  in  numbers,  and  merry ;  our  home 
is  upon  the  plain  on  the  border  of  a  great  forest, 
well  sheltered  on  two  sides,  and  full  of  booty.  Ever 
since  I  knew  how  to  run,  being  well  fed  and  full- 
fledged,  my  life  was  a  very  happy  one.  But  one 
thing  disturbed  -me  somewhat,  and  that  was  the 
famous  beginning  of  the  chase ;  our  parents  began 
to  talk  of  it  among  themselves,  in  whispers;  a 
veteran  of  our  company  would  tell  me  on  such 
occasions,  — 

"  Do  not  fear,  Rouget," —  I  was  named  Rouget 
because  of  my  bill,  and  my  legs  the  color  of  the 
red  berries  of  the  rowan,  —  "  do  not  fear,  Rouget. 
I  will  take  you  with  me  the  day  the  hunt  begins, 
and  I  am  sure  no  ill  will  befall  you."  He  was  an 
old  fellow,  very  sly,  and  still  nimble,  although  he 
had  the  horseshoe  already  marked  upon  his  breast, 
and  a  few  white  feathers  here  and  there.  When  he 
was  young  he  received  a  grain  of  lead  in  one  wing, 


292  Monday   Tales, 

making  it  rather  heavy,  and  he  looks  about  him 
more  than  once  before  flying,  takes  his  time  about 
it,  and  gets  out  of  harm's  way.  He  had  often  led 
me  as  far  as  the  entrance  of  the  woods,  where 
there  stands  an  odd  little  house,  nestling  close  to 
chestnut-trees,  silent  as  an  empty  burrow,  and 
always  closed. 

"  Look  well  at  that  house,  little  one,"  said  the 
old  fellow  one  day ;  "  when  you  see  smoke  rising 
from  the  roof,  when  the  shutters  and  the  door  are 
opened,  it  bodes  ill  for  us." 

I  placed  myself  completely  in  his  charge,  know- 
ing that  this  was  not  the  first  hunting-season  for 
him. 

And,  in  fact,  the  very  next  morning,  at  break  of 
day,  I  heard  some  one  calling  very  softly  amid  the 
furrows,  — 

"  Rouget,  Rouget !  " 

It  was  the  old  fellow  himself.  His  eyes  had  an 
extraordinary  expression. 

"  Come  quickly,"  he  said,  "  and  do  exactly  as  I 
do." 

I  followed  him,  still  half  asleep,  gliding  along 
the  clumps  of  turf,  not  flying  and  scarcely  hop- 
ping, but  creeping  like  a  mouse.  We  reached  the 
border  of  the  woods,  and  in  passing  I  saw  smoke 
ascending  from  the  chimney  of  the  little  house ; 
the  windows  were  no  longer  closed,  the  door  stood 
wide  open,  and  before  it  were  huntsmen,  thoroughly 
equipped  for  the  chase,  and  surrounded  by  dogs 
bounding  about  them.  As  we  passed,  one  of  these 
huntsmen  exclaimed, — 


Emotions  oj  a  Young  Red  Partridge,     293 

"  We  will  scour  the  plain  this  morning,  and  leave 
the  woods  until  after  dinner." 

Then  I  understood  why  my  old  comrade  had 
first  of  all  sought  a  spot  where  we  would  be  shel- 
tered. Nevertheless,  my  heart  was  jumping  quickly, 
especially  when  I  thought  of  our  poor  friends. 

Suddenly,  just  as  we  passed  the  outskirts  of  the 
woods,  the  dogs  began  to  gallop  in  our  direction. 

"  Keep  close  to  the  ground,  close  to  the  ground," 
said  my  old  comrade,  dropping  to  the  earth ;  and 
at  the  same  moment,  ten  paces  from  us  a  terrified 
quail  spread  out  his  wings,  opened  wide  his  beak, 
and  flew,  uttering  a  frightened  cry.  I  heard  a  for- 
midable sound,  and  we  were  enveloped  in  dust 
which  had  a  strange  odor,  and  was  white  and  warm 
although  the  sun  had  scarcely  risen.  I  was  so 
frightened  that  I  was  no  longer  able  to  run.  For- 
tunately, we  had  entered  the  woods.  My  comrade 
hid  behind  a  small  oak,  and  I  took  my  position 
near  him,  and  there  we  remained  in  hiding,  peep- 
ing through  the  leaves. 

In  the  fields  there  was  a  terrific  firing.  At  every 
shot  I  closed  my  eyes,  quite  dazed ;  when  at  last 
I  resolved  to  open  them,  I  saw  before  me  the  plain, 
vast  and  bare;  dogs  were  running  about,  prying 
in  the  grass,  among  the  sheaves,  running  about  as 
if  mad.  Behind  them  came  the  hunters,  cursing 
and  shouting.  Their  guns  flashed  in  the  sunlight. 
One  moment,  in  a  tiny  cloud  of  smoke,  I  fancied  I 
could  see,  although  there  was  not  a  single  tree  in 
the  neighborhood,  something  flying  that  looked 
like  scattered  leaves.     But  the  old  cock  assured  me 


294  Monday  Tales. 

that  what  I  saw  was  feathers,  and  in  fact,  a  hun- 
dred feet  in  front  of  us  we  saw  a  superb  young 
gray  partridge  fall  in  the  furrows,  his  bleeding 
head  upturned.  When  the  sun  was  high  and  the 
heat  intense,  the  firing  suddenly  paused.  The 
huntsmen  returned  towards  the  little  house,  where 
a  fine  fire  of  twigs  was  soon  burning.  They 
talked  among  themselves,  guns  slung  across  their 
shoulders,  arguing  about  their  shots,  while  the 
dogs  followed  close  at  their  heels,  exhausted,  their 
tongues  hanging. 

"  They  are  going  to  dine,"  said  my  companion ; 
"  let  us  do  the  same." 

And  we  entered  a  field  of  buckwheat  which  is 
close  to  the  woods,  a  big  field  dark  in  places,  white 
in  others,  partly  in  flower,  partly  gone  to  seed,  and 
scented  like  almond.  Beautiful  pheasants  with 
reddish-brown  plumage  were  pecking  there  as  well 
as  ourselves,  dropping  their  red  crests  lest  they 
should  be  seen.  Ah  !  they  were  not  so  valiant  as 
of  old.  As  they  ate  they  asked  us  for  news,  and 
wished  to  learn  whether  any  of  their  kin  had  fallen. 
Meanwhile  the  meal  of  the  sportsmen,  at  first  silent, 
became  more  and  more  boisterous ;  we  could  hear 
glasses  clinking  and  the  corks  of  bottles  flying. 
My  old  comrade  thought  it  was  time  to  seek  our 
covert  again. 

At  this  hour  the  forest  seemed  as  if  asleep. 
The  little  pool  where  the  roebucks  come  to  drink 
was  not  troubled  by  a  single  tongue  lapping  the 
water.  Not  even  the  snout  of  a  rabbit  in  the  wild 
thyme  of  the  warren.     Only  a  mysterious  shudder 


Emotions  of  a  Young  Red  Partridge,     295 

was  felt,  as  if  every  leaf,  every  grass-blade,  shel- 
tered an  existence  that  was  endangered.  These 
hunted  ones  of  the  forest  have  so  many  hiding- 
places  in  burrows,  thickets,  fagots,  and  brushwood ; 
and  then  there  are  those  ditches,  those  tiny  ditches 
in  the  woods,  that  hold  the  water  so  long  after  a 
rain.  I  confess  that  I  would  gladly  have  sought 
one  of  those  holes,  but  my  companion  preferred 
not  to  remain  in  hiding,  but  to  have  the  country 
before  him,  able  to  look  far  and  wide  in  the  open 
air.  It  was  lucky  for  us,  for  soon  the  huntsmen 
arrived  in  the  woods. 

Oh !  that  first  shot  in  the  forest,  that  fire  which 
pierced  the  leaves  like  an  April  hail-storm,  denting 
the  bark  of  the  trees.  Never  shall  I  forget  it.  A 
rabbit  scampered  across  the  road,  tearing  off  tufts 
of  grass  with  his  paws.  A  squirrel  tumbled  down 
a  chestnut  tree,  the  still  green  chestnuts  tumbling 
with  him.  The  heavy  flight  of  some  big  pheasants 
was  heard,  and  a  tumult  ensued  in  the  low  branches, 
among  the  dry  leaves,  at  the  shock  of  this  fire, 
which  startled,  awoke,  and  frightened  every  living 
thing  in  the  woods.  Field-mice  ran  out  of  their 
holes.  A  stag-beetle  crawled  from  a  crevice  in  the 
tree  where  we  were  crouching,  and  rolled  his  big 
stupid  eyes,  fixed  with  terror.  Blue  dragon-flies, 
humble-bees,  butterflies,  tiny  creatures  of  all  sorts 
fled  terrified  in  every  direction.  A  little  cricket 
with  scarlet  wings  even  went  so  far  as  to  crawl  close 
to  my  beak,  but  I  was  too  frightened  myself  to  take 
advantage  of  its  terror. 

But  my  old  comrade  remained  calm.     Constantly 


296  Monday   Tales. 

attentive  to  the  firing  and  the  barking  of  the  dogs, 
when  they  came  nearer  he  would  signal  to  me, 
and  we  would  withdraw  a  little,  beyond  reach  of 
the  dogs  and  well-hidden  in  the  foliage.  And  yet, 
on  one  occasion  I  really  believed  that  we  were 
lost.  The  passage  we  must  cross  was  guarded  at 
every  step  by  a  hunter  lying  in  wait.  On  one  side 
stood  a  big,  determined,  black-whiskered  fellow, 
whose  every  movement  set  a  mass  of  old  iron  ring- 
ing; he  was  armed  with  a  hunting-knife,  cartridge- 
pouch,  powder-box,  and  with  high-buttoned  gaiters 
reaching  to  his  knees,  making  him  look  even  taller ; 
on  the  other  side  a  little  old  man  leaning  against 
a  tree,  tranquilly  smoking  a  pipe,  blinking  his 
eyes  as  if  he  wished  to  doze.  He  did  not  frighten 
me  in  the  least ;  it  was  the  big  fellow  who  terrified 
me. 

"You  know  nothing  at  all,  Rouget,"  said  my 
comrade,  with  a  smile ;  and  advancing  fearlessly  with 
outspread  wings,  he  flew  past,  almost  touching  the 
legs  of  the  terrible  black-whiskered  huntsman. 

And  the  fact  is,  the  poor  man  was  so  encum- 
bered with  his  hunting-rig,  so  absorbed  in  admiring 
himself  from  top  to  toe,  that  when  he  aimed  his 
gun,  we  were  already  beyond  his  range.  Ah !  if 
the  huntsman  only  knew,  when  he  thinks  himself 
alone  in  a  corner  of  the  woods,  how  many  tiny, 
fixed  eyes  are  watching  from  every  bush,  how 
many  tiny,  pointed  bills  are  trying  to  hold  in  their 
laughter  at  his  awkwardness  ! 

We  went  on  and  on.  Having  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  follow  my  comrade,  my  wings  fluttered 


Emotions  of  a  Young  Red  Partridge,     297 

to  every  motion  of  his  own,  and  folded  silently 
when  he  alighted.  I  can  still  see  every  place  we 
passed  —  the  warren,  pink  with  heath,  full  of  bur- 
rows at  the  foot  of  the  yellow  trees,  and  then  that 
great  curtain  of  oaks  where  I  seemed  to  see  death 
concealed  everywhere,  the  little  green  lane  where 
Mother  Partridge  had  so  often  walked  with  her  tiny 
brood  in  the  May  sunshine,  where  we  hopped 
about,  pecking  at  the  red  ants  that  clambered  up 
our  legs,  and  where  we  met  snobbish  little  pheas- 
ants, dull  as  chickens,  who  would  not  play  with  us. 

I  see,  as  if  in  a  dream,  that  little  lane  at  the 
moment  a  roe  would  cross  it,  erect  upon  her  slender 
legs,  her  eyes  wide  open,  her  body  ready  to  spring. 
And  then  there  was  that  pool  we  visited  in  parties 
of  fifteen  to  thirty,  all  of  the  same  flock,  passing 
across  the  plain  in  a  minute  to  drink  the  water  of 
the  spring  and  splash  its  droplets  which  rolled 
down  our  lustrous  plumage.  In  the  midst  of  this 
pond  there  was  a  clump  of  young  alders,  that 
formed  quite  a  thicket,  and  upon  that  little  island 
we  took  refuge.  The  dogs  must  have  had  a  keen 
scent  to  have  come  there  in  search  of  us.  We  had 
been  there  a  moment  when  a  roebuck  arrived 
dragging  three  legs  along,  and  leaving  a  red  track 
upon  the  moss  behind  him.  It  was  such  a  sad 
sight  that  I  hid  my  head  beneath  the  leaves ;  but 
I  could  hear  the  wounded  animal  drinking  in  the 
pool,  panting  and  consumed  with  fever. 

The  sun  was  setting.  The  firing  sounded  at  a 
distance  now,  the  shots  few  and  far  between.  At 
length  there  was  silence.     The  day's  hunt  was  over. 


298  Monday   Tales. 

Then  we  returned  very  softly  across  the  plain  for 
news  of  our  covey.  As  we  passed  by  the  little 
wooden  house,  I  saw  a  horrible  sight. 

On  the  edge  of  a  ditch,  russet-coated  hares  and 
little,  gray,  white-tailed  rabbits  were  lying  side  by 
side.  Their  tiny  paws,  bent  together  in  death, 
seemed  to  beg  for  mercy;  their  dim  eyes  seemed 
about  to  weep ;  we  saw  red  partridges  also,  and 
gray  ones,  who  had  a  horseshoe  marked  upon  their 
breasts,  like  my  comrade,  and  young  ones  of  this 
year's  brood,  who  like  myself  still  had  down  upon 
their  wings.  Do  you  know  any  sadder  sight  in  the 
world  than  a  dead  bird  ?  What  seems  more  alive 
than  the  wings  of  a  bird?  But  to  see  them  folded 
and  cold  causes  one  to  shudder.  There  was  also 
a  huge  roebuck  lying  there ;  it  was  a  magnificent 
animal,  and  lay  there  quietly,  as  if  it  had  fallen 
asleep,  its  little  red  tongue  outstretched  as  if  about 
to  lick. 

The  huntsmen  too  were  there,  leaning  over  all  this 
slaughtered  booty,  counting  and  drawing  towards 
their  game-bags  broken  wings  and  bleeding  legs, 
with  no  respect  for  those  wounds,  still  fresh.  The 
dogs,  tied-up  to  go  back,  were  scowling  and  point- 
ing, as  if  ready  to  spring  again  into  the  thicket. 

Oh !  while  that  great  sun  was  sinking  yonder, 
as  they  went  off  wearily,  casting  long  shadows  upon 
the  clods  and  the  paths  wet  with  the  evening-dews, 
how  I  cursed,  how  I  hated  them,  men  and  brutes, 
that  entire  band.  Neither  my  companion  nor  my- 
self had  the  heart  for  piping  our  usual  farewell 
note  to  the  departing  day. 


Emotions  of  a  Young  Red  Partridge.     299 

Upon  our  way  we  came  across  more  unfortunate 
little  beasts,  slain  by  a  chance  bullet,  and  lying 
there,  abandoned  to  ants  and  field-mice,  their 
muzzles  full  of  dust ;  we  saw  magpies  and  swallows, 
suddenly  struck  in  their  flight ;  they  lay  head  up, 
upon  the  ground,  and  their  little  claws  curled  stiffly 
upward,  while  the  night  descended  swiftly,  —  an 
autumn  night,  clear,  cold,  and  damp.  And  more 
heart-rending  than  aught  else  were  the  cries  which 
rose  from  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  from  deep 
in  the  meadow,  from  the  willows  fringing  the  river, 
calls  that  were  uttered  far  and  wide,  sad  anxious 
cries  which  no  call  answered. 


30O  Monday   Tales. 


THE   MIRROR. 

In  the  North,  on  the  bank  of  the  Niemen,  ap- 
peared one  day  a  little  creole,  fifteen  years  of  age, 
pink  and  white  as  the  blossoms  of  the  almond  tree. 
She  had  come  from  the  land  of  humming-birds, 
and  a  breath  of  love  wafted  her  hither.  True,  the 
people  of  her  island  had  said  to  her,  "  Do  not  go. 
It  is  cold  on  the  continent.  When  winter  comes 
it  will  kill  you."  But  the  little  creole  did  not  be- 
lieve there  was  such  a  thing  as  winter,  and  she  did 
not  know  what  cold  was  except  as  she  had  tasted 
it  in  sherbets ;  besides,  she  was  in  love,  and  had  no 
fear  of  death.  And  so  it  happened  that  she  landed 
northward,  among  the  fogs  of  the  Niemen,  with 
her  fans,  her  hammock,  mosquito-nettings,  and  a 
gilded,  latticed  cage,  filled  with  the  birds  of  her 
country. 

When  old  Father  North  saw  this  island-flower 
the  South  had  sent  him  in  a  sunbeam,  his  heart 
stirred  within  him  for  pity ;  and  as  he  thought  that 
the  cold  would  make  but  a  single  mouthful  of  the 
maiden  and  her  humming-birds,  he  quickly  lighted 
his  great  yellow  sun,  and  disguised  himself  in  sum- 
mer's garment  to  receive  the  strangers.  And  so 
the   creole    was   deceived,  and    she    mistook  this 


The  Mirror.  301 

northern  heat,  so  harsh  and  oppressive,  for  constant 
warmth,  and  its  dark  evergreen  for  the  verdure  of 
spring-time,  and  hanging  her  hammock  in  the  park 
between  two  fir  trees  she  swung  and  fanned  herself 
all  day  long. 

"  It  is  very  warm  in  the  North,"  she  said  with  a 
smile.  But  one  thing  troubled  her.  Why  in  this 
strange  country  have  the  houses  no  verandas? 
Why  those  thick  walls,  those  carpets  and  heavy 
hangings?  Those  great  porcelain  stoves,  and  huge 
piles  of  wood  heaped  up  in  the  yards,  those  blue 
fox-skins,  lined  cloaks,  and  furs  laid  away  at  the  bot- 
tom of  wardrobes,  —  what  are  all  these  things  for  ? 
Poor  child,  she  will  soon  learn. 

One  morning,  on  awaking,  the  little  creole  feels 
a  sudden  chill  pass  through  her.  The  sun  has  dis- 
appeared, and  from  the  darkened  overhanging  sky, 
which  seems  to  have  descended  upon  the  earth  dur- 
ing the  preceding  night,  flakes  are  falling,  forming 
a  woolly  covering,  white  and  silent  as  that  which 
falls  from  the  cotton  tree.  Winter  is  come  !  Winter 
is  come  !  The  wind  whistles,  the  stoves  roar.  In 
their  big  cage  with  its  gilded  lattice,  the  humming- 
birds chirp  no  longer.  Their  tiny  wings,  blue,  rose- 
hued,  ruby-red,  and  sea-green,  are  motionless  now. 
It  is  pitiful  to  see  them  huddling  against  each 
other,  their  bodies  benumbed  and  swollen  with  the 
cold,  —  such  slender  beaks,  and  eyes  like  pin-heads. 
Yonder,  in  the  park,  frost  has  eaten  into  the  ham- 
mock, and  it,  too,  shivers  with  the  cold.  The 
branches  of  the  pine  tree  are  sheathed  in  a  cover- 
ing that  looks  like  spun  glass.     The  little  creole 


302  Monday   Tales, 

feels  the  cold,  and  does  not  care  to  venture  out 
of  doors. 

Curled  up  snugly  beside  the  fire,  like  one  of  her 
birds,  she  whiles  away  the  hours  making  sunshine 
of  her  memories.  In  the  great  fireplace  a  bright 
fire  burns,  and  in  its  flames  she  seems  to  see  all 
the  scenes  of  her  native  land,  the  great  quays 
basking  in  sunshine,  the  dripping  sugar-cane,  and 
the  floating,  golden  dust  of  grains  of  maize ;  then 
the  afternoon  siesta,  the  light  blinds  and  straw 
mattings,  —  and  those  starlit  evenings,  with  fire- 
flies, and  millions  of  tiny  wings  buzzing  among  the 
flowers,  and  the  tulle  meshes  of  mosquito-netting. 

And  while  she  dreams  at  the  fireside,  the  winter 
days  follow  each  other,  growing  shorter  and 
gloomier.  Every  morning  a  dead  humming-bird 
is  picked  up  in  the  cage ;  soon  there  are  but  two 
of  them  left,  two  tufted  bits  of  green  plumage 
that  lean,  bristling,  against  each  other  in  a  corner 
of  the  cage.  That  morning  the  little  Creole  her- 
self was  unable  to  rise.  Like  a  Turkish  felucca 
lodged  fast  in  Northern  ice-fields,  she  is  griped 
and  paralyzed  by  the  cold-  The  day  is  sombre, 
the  chamber  dreary.  The  frost  has  curtained  the 
window-panes  with  a  heavy  covering,  like  lustreless 
silk;  the  city  itself  seems  dead,  and  through  the 
silent  streets  the  steam  snow-plough  wheezes  dole- 
fully. The  creole,  lying  in  bed,  tries  to  divert 
herself  by  watching  the  flash  from  the  spangles 
of  her  fan,  and  passes  hours  gazing  at  herself  in 
the  mirrors  of  her  native  land,  fringed  with  tail 
Indian  plumes. 


The  Mirror,  303 

Growing  ever  shorter,  ever  gloomier,  the  winter 
days  follow  each  other.  Surrounded  by  her  lace 
curtains,  the  little  Creole  droops,  is  wretched. 
What  saddens  her  most  of  all  is  to  find  that  from 
her  bed  she  cannot  see  the  fire.  It  seems  to  her 
that  she  has  lost  her  country  a  second  time.  From 
time  to  time  she  asks,  "  Is  there  a  fire  in  the 
room?"  "Why,  of  course  there  is,  little  one. 
The  fireplace  is  aflame !  Don't  you  hear  the  logs 
crackling,  the  fir-cones  bursting? — Oh,  look, 
look  !  "  But  though  she  leans  forward,  the  flames 
are  too  far  away  for  her ;  she  cannot  see  them,  and 
the  thought  renders  her  disconsolate.  But  one 
evening,  as  she  lies  there,  pensive  and  pale,  her 
head  barely  touching  her  pillow,  and  her  eyes 
ceaselessly  directed  towards  that  beautiful  invisible 
flame,  her  beloved  approaches  her  bedside,  and 
lifts  one  of  the  mirrors  lying  upon  the  bed :  "  You 
want  to  see  the  flame,  mignonne  f  Well,  then, 
wait  a  moment,"  and  kneeling  before  the  fire,  he 
tries  to  hold  the  mirror  so  that  she  shall  receive 
a  reflection  of  the  magic  flame.  "  Can  you  see 
it? "  "  No  !  I  see  nothing."  —  "  How  now ?  "  "I 
cannot  see  it  yet."  Then  suddenly  receiving  full 
upon  her  face  a  flash  of  light  that  envelops  her, 
"Oh,  I  see  it!"  cries  the  Creole,  overjoyed,  and 
she  dies  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  two  tiny  flames 
leaping  from  the  depths  of  her  eyes. 


304  Monday   Tales. 


THE   BLIND    EMPEROR,  OR    A    JOURNEY 

IN    BAVARIA   IN   SEARCH    OF   A 

JAPANESE  TRAGEDY. 

I. 

COLONEL  VON   SIEBOLDT, 

In  the  spring  of  1866,  Colonel  Sieboldt,  a  Bava- 
rian in  the  service  of  Holland,  well  known  in  the 
scientific  world  through  his  charming  works  upon 
the  Japanese  flora,  came  to  Paris  to  submit  to  the 
Emperor  a  vast  project  for  an  international  associa- 
tion for  the  exploitation  of  that  marvellous  Nipon- 
Jepon-Japon  (Land  of  the  Rising  Sun),  where  he 
had  resided  for  thirty  years.  While  awaiting  an 
audience  in  the  Tuileries,  the  illustrious  traveller, 
who  had  remained  decidedly  Bavarian  in  spite  of 
his  sojourn  in  Japan,  passed  his  evenings  in  a  little 
beer-shop  of  the  Faubourg  Poissonniere,  in  com- 
pany with  a  young  lady  of  Munich  who  travelled 
with  him,  and  whom  he  introduced  as  his  niece. 
There  it  was  I  first  ran  across  him.  The  physiog- 
nomy of  this  tall  old  man,  erect  and  sturdy  in  spite 
of  his  sixty-two  years,  his  long  white  beard,  his 
interminable  fur-lined  coat,  its  button-hole  decked 
with  ribbons  of  various  colors  presented  by  divers 
academies  of  science,  his  foreign  manner,  in  which 


The  Blind  Emperor,  305 

there  were  at  once  timidity  and  boldness,  his  whole 
appearance  was  sufficient  to  cause  all  eyes  to  turn 
in  his  direction  whenever  he  entered.  The  colonel 
would  seat  himself  solemnly,  and  draw  from  his 
pocket  a  big  black  radish ;  then  the  little  lady  who 
accompanied  him,  decidedly  German  in  the  cut  of 
her  short  skirt,  her  fringed  shawl,  and  her  little  tour- 
ist's-hat,  would  proceed  to  cut  that  radish  in  thin 
slices  after  the  fashion  of  her  country,  cover  it  with 
salt,  and  offer  it  to  her  "  otitic^"  as  she  called  him  in 
her  thin  voice,  as  small  as  a  mouse's,  and  both  of 
them  would  begin  to  nibble,  sitting  vis-a-vis,  tran- 
quilly, and  with  perfect  simplicity,  without  the 
slightest  suspicion  that  to  behave  in  Paris  exactly 
as  if  in  Munich  might  cause  ridicule.  Truly  this 
was  an  original  and  sympathetic  couple,  and  it  did 
not  take  long  for  us  to  become  great  friends.  The 
worthy  man,  perceiving  how  well  inclined  I  was  to 
listen  when  he  talked  of  Japan,  asked  me  to  revise 
his  Memoir,  and  I  hastened  to  accept  the  task, 
prompted  as  much  by  regard  for  this  aged  Sinbad 
as  by  the  desire  to  plunge  more  deeply  into  the 
study  of  that  beautiful  country,  for  which  he  had 
communicated  his  own  love  to  me.  This  labor  of 
revision  was  by  no  means  a  light  one.  The  entire 
Memoir  was  written  in  the  same  bizarre  French 
that  Colonel  Sieboldt  spoke. 

"  Si  j'aurais  des  actionnaires, — si  je  re'unirais 
des  fonds,"  and  those  blunders  of  pronunciation 
which  made  him  say  regularly,  "  Les  grandes  boites 
de  VAsie"  for  "  Les  grandes  poetes  de  VAsie"  and 
"  le  Chabon  "  for  "  le  Japon"     Add  to  this,  many 


306  Monday   Tales, 

of  his  phrases  were  fifty  lines  in  length,  without  a 
period,  a  single  comma,  nowhere  a  breathing-place, 
—  and  yet  the  whole  so  well  arranged  in  the  brain  of 
the  author  that  to  omit  a  single  word  seemed  to  him 
impossible ;  if  it  occurred  to  me  to  cut  out  a  line, 
he  very  quickly  transferred  it  to  another  place. 

Notwithstanding,  this  terrible  man  was  so  inter- 
esting with  his  Chabon  that  I  forgot  to  be  tired 
while  I  labored,  and  when  the  letter  arrived  grant- 
ing an  audience,  the  Memoir  was  already  fairly 
well  in  shape. 

Poor  old  Sieboldt !  I  can  still  see  him  walking 
towards  the  Tuileries,  all  his  crosses  upon  his 
breast,  in  his  uniform  with  that  fine  colonel's  coat  of 
scarlet  and  gold,  which  he  brought  from  his  trunk 
only  upon  great  occasions.  In  spite  of  his  oft- 
repeated  "  brum,  brum,"  as  he  straightened  his  tall 
figure  again  and  again,  as  I  felt  his  arm  tremble 
against  mine,  and  noted  the  unusual  pallor  of  his 
nose,  the  fine,  big  nose  of  a  scientist,  crimsoned  by 
study  and  the  beer  of  Munich,  I  knew  that  he  was 
deeply  moved.  That  evening,  when  I  saw  him 
again,  he  was  triumphant.  Napoleon  III.  had 
received  him  between  two  doors,  listened  for  five 
minutes,  and  dismissed  him  with  that  favorite 
phrase,  "  I  will  see.  I  will  consider."  As  result 
of  which,  the  narve  Japanese  was  already  talking  of 
renting  the  first  story  of  the  Grand  H6tel,  writing 
to  the  journals,  and  issuing  a  prospectus.  I  had 
great  difficulty  in  making  him  understand  that  his 
Majesty's  reflections  might  require  some  time,  and 
that  meanwhile  it  would  be  better  to   return   to 


The  Blind  Emperor.  307 

Munich,  where  Parliament  had  just  voted  funds  for 
the  purchase  of  his  great  collection.  My  remarks 
finally  convinced,  him,  and  on  his  departure  he 
promised  me,  in  return  for  the  trouble  I  had  taken 
with  his  famous  Memoir,  a  Japanese  tragedy  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  entitled  The  Blind  Emperor,  a 
precious  masterpiece,  absolutely  unknown  in 
Europe,  and  translated  by  him  expressly  for  his 
friend  Meyerbeer.  The  master  was  about  to  write 
the  music  for  the  choruses  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
You  perceive  that  the  gift  the  good  man  wished 
to  make  me  was  a  valuable  one. 

Unfortunately,  some  days  after  his  departure, 
war  broke  out  in  Germany,  and  I  heard  nothing 
more  of  my  tragedy.  The  Prussians  having  in- 
vaded Wiirtemberg  and  Bavaria,  it  was  quite 
natural,  in  his  patriotic  excitement  and  the  confu- 
sion attending  an  invasion,  that  the  colonel  should 
have  forgotten  my  Blind  Emperor.  But  I  thought 
of  it  myself  more  than  ever,  and  —  I  confess  — 
partly  stirred  by  a  longing  for  my  Japanese  trag- 
edy, partly  moved  by  curiosity  to  see  what  war 
and  invasion  at  close  range  were  like,  —  O  ye 
gods !  how  the  horror  of  it  all  remains  in  my 
memory,  —  I  decided  one  fine  morning  to  set  out 
for  Munich. 

II. 

SOUTH    GERMANY. 

TALK    of   your   phlegmatic    nations!      In   the 
midst  of  war  and  burning  beneath   that  intense 


308  Monday   Tales. 

August  sun,  all  the  country  beyond  the  Rhine,  from 
the  bridge  of  Kehl  to  Munich  itself,  —  how  tranquil 
and  cold  it  all  seemed.  Through  the  thirty  win- 
dows of  the  Wurtemberg  car,  which  took  me 
slowly,  sluggishly  across  Swabia,  landscape  after 
landscape  was  unrolled,  mountains,  ravines,  masses 
of  rich  verdure,  which  suggested  the  presence  of  re- 
freshing streams.  Upon  many  a  slope  which  would 
disappear  as  the  train  moving  on  passed  through 
some  wind  of  the  road,  peasant-girls  were  seen, 
standing  stiffly  in  the  mid^t  of  their  cattle,  clad  in 
red  petticoats  and  velvet  bodices,  and  the  trees 
around  them  were  so  green  that  one  might  almost 
fancy  he  saw  a  miniature  landscape  taken  from  one 
of  those  tiny  fir-boxes  fragrant  with  the  resinous 
odors  of  Northern  forests.  Now  and  then  we  would 
see  a  dozen  foot-soldiers,  clad  in  green,  covering 
step  in  a  meadow,  heads  erect,  legs  raised,  bearing 
their  guns  as  if  they  were  cross-bows,  perhaps  the 
army  of  some  Nassau  prince.  Sometimes  other 
trains  passed,  as  slowly  as  our  own,  loaded  with 
big  boats,  where  the  Wurtemberg  soldiery,  huddled 
as  if  in  some  allegoric  chariot,  sang  three-part  bar- 
carolles as  they  fled  before  the  Prussians.  There 
were  halts  at  every  refreshment-station,  and  one 
saw  major-domos  with  rigid  smiles,  and  those  fat, 
good-natured  faces,  napkins  tucked  under  their 
chins,  standing  before  enormous  hunches  of  meat, 
served  with  sweetmeats ;  then  came  the  royal  Park 
of  Stuttgard,  full  of  coaches,  toilets,  cavalcades, 
waltz-music  playing  about  the  fountains,  quadrilles 
while  a  battle  was  in  progress  at  Kissingen.     Really, 


The  Blind  Emperor.  309 

when  I  recall  all  this,  and  think  of  what  I  saw  four 
years  later  in  that  same  mouth  of  August,  locomo- 
tives madly  rushing  no  one  knew  where,  as  if  the 
great  sun  itself  had  bewitched  their  boilers,  railroad 
cars  pulling  up  on  the  very  battlefield,  rails  cut, 
trains  in  distress,  France  reduced  day  by  day,  as 
the  Eastern  Line  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  —  all 
along  the  route  abandoned  tracks,  and  a  dismal  as- 
semblage of  railway-stations,  which  were  left  in  their 
loneliness,  in  a  deserted  land  full  of  wounded  men, 
forgotten  like  so  much  luggage  —  I  begin  to  believe 
that  the  war  between  Prussia  and  the  Southern 
States  was  but  a  sham  war  after  all,  and  that,  in 
spite  of  all  which  could  be  told  us,  the  German 
wolves  do  not  devour  each  other. 

To  see  Munich  was  to  be  convinced  of  this. 
The  evening  when  I  arrived,  a  beautiful  Sunday 
evening,  the  sky  thick  with  stars,  all  the  city  was 
out  of  doors.  A  vague,  joyous  rumor  was  floating 
in  the  air,  as  indistinct  beneath  the  light,  as  dust 
raised  by  the  footsteps  of  all  these  promenaders. 
In  the  cool,  vaulted  beer-cellars,  in  the  beer-gardens 
where  colored  lanterns  swayed  to  and  fro  with  a 
dim  light,  everywhere  was  heard,  mingling  with  the 
noise  of  the  covers  of  beer-mugs  dropping  heavily, 
the  sound  of  brass  and  wood  instruments,  uttering 
triumphal  notes.  It  was  in  one  of  these  harmonic 
beer-shops  I  discovered  Colonel  Sieboldt,  seated 
with  his  niece,  before  that  everlasting  black  radish 
of  his. 

At  a  side-table,  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs 
was  drinking  bock   in   company  with   the   king's 


310  Monday  Tales. 

uncle.  All  around  us  were  seated  the  worthy  citi- 
zens of  Munich  with  their  families,  officers  in  spec- 
tacles, students  wearing  little  caps,  red,  blue,  and 
sea-green ;  all  were  grave  and  silent,  and  listened 
religiously  to  Herr  Gungl's  orchestra,  as  they 
watched  the  clouds  of  smoke  rising  from  their 
pipes,  with  no  more  concern  about  Prussia  than  if 
it  did  not  exist.  The  colonel  seemed  slightly  dis- 
turbed when  he  saw  me,  and  I  believe  that  he 
lowered  his  voice  perceptibly  when  he  addressed 
me  in  French.  Around  us  were  whispers  of 
"  Frantzose  !  Frantzose!"  and  I  could  feel  the  ill-will 
every  glance  conveyed.  "  Let  us  go,"  said  Colonel 
Sieboldt,  and  once  we  were  outside,  his  smile  was 
as  frank  as  of  old.  The  worthy  man  had  not  for- 
gotten his  promise,  but  he  had  been  very  much  ab- 
sorbed in  the  arrangement  of  his  Japanese  collection, 
which  he  had  sold  to  the  State.  That  was  the  reason 
why  he  had  not  written.  As  for  my  tragedy,  it  was 
at  Wurtzbourg,  in  the  hands  of  Frau  von  Sieboldt, 
and  to  reach  that  place  it  was  necessary  to  obtain 
a  special  permission  from  the  French  Embassy, 
for  the  Prussians  were  approaching  Wurtzbourg,  and 
it  was  now  very'difficult  to  gain  entry.  But  I  had 
so  strong  a  desire  to  obtain  my  Blind  Emperor 
that  I  would  have  gone  to  the  Embassy  that  very 
evening  had  I  not  feared  that  M.  de  Trevise  would 
have  gone  to  bed. 


The  Blind  Emperor,  311 


III. 

IN   A   DROSKY. 

EARLY  the  following  morning,  the  landlord  of 
the  Grappe-Bleue  persuaded  me  to  climb  to  the  top 
of  one  of  those  small  conveyances  which  stand  in 
hotel-courtyards,  and  can  always  be  hired  by  trav- 
ellers who  wish  to  be  shown  the  curiosities  of  the 
city,  from  which  equipage  monuments  and  avenues 
appear  exactly  as  if  you  had  encountered  them  upon 
the  pages  of  a  guide-book.  On  this  occasion  the 
city  was  not  to  be  shown  to  me,  but  I  was  to  be 
conducted  to  the  French  Embassy,  "  Frantzsosiche 
Ambassad  !  "  the  hotel-keeper  repeated  twice.  The 
coachman,  a  little  man  in  blue  livery,  a  gigantic 
hat  upon  his  head,  seemed  much  astonished  at 
the  new  destination  of  his  fiacre,  or  his  droschken, 
as  they  call  it  in  Munich.  But  I  was  even  more 
astounded  than  he  when  I  saw  him  turn  his  back 
upon  the  noble  quarter  where  we  were,  and  enter  a 
poorer  part  of  the  city,  which  for  a  long  distance 
was  lined  with  factories,  working-men's  lodgings, 
and  tiny  gardens ;  then  he  passed  beyond  the  gates 
and  out  of  the  city. 

"  Ambassad  Frantzsosiche  f  "  I  asked  uneasily 
from  time  to  time. 

"  Ya,  Ya"  answered  the  little  man,  and  we  rolled 
on  and  on.  I  would  have  gladly  received  further 
information,  but  what  the  deuce  was  to  be  done? 


3 1 2  Monday  Tales. 

My  guide  could  not  speak  French,  and  I  myself 
at  this  epoch  knew  only  two  or  three  phrases  of 
the  German  language,  very  elementary  ones  at 
that,  which  related  merely  to  bread,  bed,  meat,  and 
had  naught  to  do  with  such  words  as  "  ambassador." 
And  even  these  few  words  I  could  only  deliver  set 
to  music,  and  this  is  the  reason  :  — 

Some  years  before,  with  a  comrade  almost  as 
mad  as  myself,  I  had  travelled  across  Alsace, 
Switzerland,  and  the  Duchy  of  Baden,  —  a  real 
colporteur's  journey,  knapsacks  strapped  upon  our 
shoulders,  striding  across  the  country,  a  dozen 
leagues  at  a  stretch,  turning  aside  from  the  cities,  of 
which  we  wished  to  see  nothing  more  than  the 
gates,  following  each  tiny  by-way,  never  knowing 
whither  it  would  lead  us.  Often  the  result  would 
be  that  we  had  to  pass  a  night,  unexpectedly,  in 
the  open  field,  or  in  some  barn  whose  roof  was 
the  sky,  but  what  made  our  journeys  still  more 
eventful  was  the  fact  that  neither  of  us  knew  a  sin- 
gle word  of  German.  By  the  aid  of  a  little  pocket- 
dictionary  purchased  as  we  were  passing  through 
Basle,  we  had  been  able  to  construct  a  few  ex- 
tremely simple  phrases,  quite  na'fve  in  character, 
such  as  "  Vir  v'ollen  trinken  Bier''  "We  want  beer 
to  drink,"  "  Vir  vollen  essen  Kase,"  "  We  want  some 
cheese  to  eat."  Unfortunately,  though  they  may 
not  seem  at  all  complex  to  you,  it  cost  us  much 
labor  to  retain  these  accursed  phrases.  We  did 
not,  in  the  comedian's  language,  "  have  them  at 
our  tongue's  end."  Then  it  occurred  to  us  that  we 
would  set  them  to  music,  and  the  little  air  we  had 


The  Blind  Emperor.  313 

composed  was  so  well  adapted  to  the  purpose  that 
the  words  entered  our  heads  along  with  the  notes, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  utter  these  phrases  without 
dragging  along  the  music.  It  was  indeed  a  sight, 
to  see  the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  Baden 
inn-keepers,  when  of  an  evening  we  would  enter 
the  great  hall  of  the  Gasthaus,  and  immediately 
our  knapsacks  were  unbuckled  chant  in  resonant 
voices :  — 

"  Vir  vollen  trinken  Bier  (repeat), 
Vir  vollen,  ya,  vir  vollen, 

•     Ya! 
Vir  vollen  trinken  Bier." 

Since  that  time  I  have  become  most  proficient  in 
German ;  I  have  had  so  many  opportunities  to 
learn  the  language.  My  vocabulary  has  been  en- 
riched by  a  host  of  expressions  and  phrases  ;  but  I 
say  them,  I  sing  them  no  longer !  Ah,  no !  I 
have  not  the  least  wish  to  sing  them. 

But  to  return  to  my  droschken. 

We  went  at  a  slow  trot  down  an  avenue  bordered 
with  trees  and  white  houses.  Suddenly  the  coach- 
man paused.  "  Da"  he  said  pointing  out  to  me  a 
little  white  house,  hidden  among  the  acacias,  which 
seemed  to  me  somewhat  secluded  and  quiet  for  an 
embassy.  Three  copper  knobs,  one  above  the 
other,  gleamed  in  a  corner  of  the  wall  beside  the 
door.  I  pulled  the  first  one  I  chanced  to  touch; 
the  door  opened,  and  I  entered  an  elegant  and 
comfortable  vestibule,  flowers  and  carpets  every- 
where.     On  the   staircase  half  a  dozen  Bavarian 


3 14  Monday   Tales. 

chambermaids  came  running  to  answer  my  ring, 
standing  in  line,  with  that  awkward  appearance  of 
birds  without  wings  that  characterizes  all  the  women 
beyond  the  Rhine. 

I  inquired,  "  Ambassad  Frantzosiche  ?  "  They 
made  me  repeat  this  twice,  and  then  began  to 
laugh,  so  loudly  that  they  shook  the  banister.  I 
returned  to  my  coachman  furious,  and  endeavored 
to  make  him  understand,  with  an  abundance  of 
gestures,  that  he  was  mistaken,  and  the  Embassy 
was  not  there.  "  Ya,  ya,"  responded  the  little  man, 
without  the  slightest  show  o£  emotion,  and  we  re- 
turned toward  Munich. 

I  must  believe  that  our  ambassador  then  at 
Munich  changed  his  domicile  very  frequently,  or 
else  my  coachman,  unwilling  to  depart  from  custom 
with  regard  to  his  droschken,  was  determined  I 
should  see,  if  possible,  the  city  and  its  environs.  At 
all  events,  our  entire  morning  was  passed  in  driving 
over  Munich  in  every  direction,  in  search  of  that 
fantastic  Embassy.  After  two  or  three  attempts  I 
ended  by  refusing  to  descend  from  the  carriage. 
The  coachman  went  in  search,  returned,  stopped 
in  certain  streets,  and  appeared  to  ask  information. 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  driven  on,  no  longer  occu- 
pied except  in  looking  about  me.  What  a  weari- 
some, cold  city,  this  Munich,  with  its  great  avenues, 
its  rows  of  palaces,  its  over-sized  streets,  where 
every  footstep  resounds,  its  open-air  museum  of 
Bavarian  celebrities,  who  seem  so  very  dead  as  one 
glances  at  their  effigies  in  white  marble. 

What    colonnades,    arcades,    frescos,    obelisks, 


The  Blind  Emperor.  315 

Greek  temples,  propylaea,  with  distichs  in  golden 
letters  upon  their  frontons !  So  much  effort  at 
grandeur ;  but  one  cannot  help  feeling  the  empti- 
ness and  pomposity  of  it  all,  finding  at  the  end  of 
each  avenue  a  triumphal  arch  where  the  horizon 
alone  passes,  and  porticos  open  to  the  blue  sky. 
So  I  picture  to  myself  those  imaginary  cities,  Italy 
mingling  with  Germany,  where  Musset  parades  the 
incurable  ennui  of  his  Fantasio  and  the  solemn, 
stupid,  bewigged  head  of  the  Prince  of  Mantua. 

This  drive  in  the  droschken  lasted  five  or  six 
hours,  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  coachman 
brought  me  back  triumphantly  to  the  courtyard  of 
the  Grappe-Blene,  cracking  his  whip,  quite  proud  to 
have  shown  me  Munich.  As  for  the  Embassy,  I 
finally  found  it  two  streets  from  my  hotel ;  but  it  did 
me  little  good,  for  the  chancellor  was  unwilling  to 
give  me  a  passport  for  Wurtzbourg.  It  seems  that 
we  were  not  very  favorably  regarded  in  Bavaria  at 
this  time;  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  a 
Frenchman  to  venture  beyond  the  outposts.  I 
was  consequently  obliged  to  wait  in  Munich  until 
Frau  yon  Sieboldt  should  find  occasion  to  send  me 
the  Japanese  tragedy. 

IV. 

THE   BLUE   COUNTRY. 

Singular  fact !  These  worthy  Bavarians,  who 
bore  us  so  much  ill-will  because  we  did  not  espouse 
their  cause  in  this  war,  felt  not  the  least  animosity 


316  Monday   Tales. 

towards  the  Prussians,  —  neither  shame  at  defeat, 
nor  hatred  for  their  conqueror.  "  They  are  the 
finest  soldiers  in  the  world,"  the  landlord  of  the 
Grappe-Bleue  said  to  me  with  a  certain  pride 
the  morning  of  Kissingen,  and  that  was  the  general 
sentiment  in  Munich.  In  the  cafes  there  was  a  rush 
for  the  Berlin  newspapers,  and  side-splitting 
laughter  at  the  pleasantries  of  Kladderadatsch, 
those  heavy  Berlin  jests,  as  ponderous  as  that 
famous  pile-hammer  of  the  Krupp  factory,  which 
weighs  fifty  thousand  kilogrammes.  As  every  one 
was  certain  that  the  Prussians  would  soon  enter  the 
city,  all  were  disposed  to  receive  them  well.  The 
beer-shops  laid  in  special  supplies  of  sausages 
and  meat-balls,  and  houses  in  the  city  began  to 
prepare  chambers  for  the  officers. 

Only  the  museums  manifested  some  uneasiness. 
One  day,  upon  entering  the  Pinakothek,  I  saw  that 
the  walls  were  bare,  and  the  guardians  of  the  place 
busied  in  nailing  away  the  paintings  in  great  pack- 
ing-cases, ready  to  be  sent  to  the  South.  It  was 
feared  that  the  conquerors,  extremely  scrupulous 
regarding  personal  property,  would  not  be  quite  so 
respectful  of  the  collections  of  the  State,  and  of  all 
the  museums  of  the  city,  only  Colonel  Sieboldt's  re- 
mained open.  In  his  capacity  as  a  Dutch  officer, 
decorated  with  the  Eagle  of  Prussia,  the  colonel 
felt  assured  that  none  would  dare  touch  his  collec- 
tion, and  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  Prussians 
he  merely  walked  back  and  forth  in  full  uniform 
through  the  three  long  halls  which  the  king  had 
given  him,  fronting  upon  the  court-garden,  a  sort 


«  The  Blind  Emperor,  317 

of  Palais-Royal,  but  greener  and  gloomier  than  ours, 
surrounded  by  cloistered  walls  painted  in  fresco. 

In  that  great,  dismal  palace,  that  exhibition  of 
curiosities,  all  carefully  labelled,  did  indeed  form  a 
museum,  a  melancholy  assemblage  of  things  come 
from  far-away  lands,  and  snatched  from  the  sphere 
in  which  they  belonged.  And  old  Sieboldt  himself 
seemed  to  form  part  of  the  collection.  I  went  to 
see  him  every  day,  and  together  we  passed  long 
hours  turning  over  the  leaves  of  those  Japanese 
manuscripts  ornamented  with  plates,  those  scientific 
and  historic  works,  the  former  so  immense  that  it 
was  necessary  to  spread  them  out  upon  the  floor  in 
order  to  open  them,  the  others  about  as  long  as  a 
finger-nail,  legible  only  with  the  aid  of  a  magnifying- 
glass,  gilded,  exquisitely  done,  and  very  valuable. 
Herr  von  Sieboldt  aroused  my  admiration  with  his 
Japanese  encyclopaedia  in  eighty-two  volumes,  and 
even  translated  for  me  an  ode  of  Hiak-nin,  a 
marvellous  work,  published  under  the  supervision 
of  the  Emperors  of  Japan,  and  containing  the  biog- 
raphies, portraits,  and  lyric  fragments  of  one  hun- 
dred of  the  most  famous  poets  of  the  Empire. 
Then  we  arranged  his  collection  of  armor,  golden 
helmets  with  huge  chin-pieces,  cuirasses,  coats  of 
mail,  great  two-handed  swords,  which  suggested  the 
days  of  Knight-templars,  and  with  which  a  body 
could  be  ripped  open  so  easily. 

He  explained,  too,  the  amorous  devices  painted 
upon  gilded  shells,  introduced  me  to  Japanese 
interiors,  showing  me  the  model  of  his  house 
at  Yedo,  a  lacquered  miniature  where  everything 


3 1 8  Monday   Tales, 

was  represented,  from  the  silken  window-shades  to 
the  rock-work  of  the  garden,  a  Lilliputian  garden, 
decorated  with  tiny  plants  and  indigenous  flora. 
But  more  than  anything  else  I  was  interested  in 
those  objects  of  Japanese  worship,  those  tiny, 
painted,  wooden  gods,  chasubles,  consecrated  vases, 
portative  chapels,  veritable  pupazzi  theatres,  which 
every  faithful  worshipper  has  in  some  corner  of 
his  house.  Tiny  red  idols  are  placed  in  the  rear. 
A  slender  knotted  cord  hangs  in  front  of  them. 
Before  commencing  his  prayer,  the  son  of  Japan 
bows,  and  by  means  of  this  cord  strikes  a  bell 
which  shines  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  It  is  thus  he 
attracts  the  attention  of  his  gods.  I  took  a  childish 
pleasure  in  ringing  these  magic  bells,  and  allowing 
my  fancy  to  wander,  carried  onward  by  that  wave 
of  sound,  even  to  the  heart  of  those  Oriental  Asias 
where  the  rising  sun  seems  to  have  gilded  all  things, 
from  the  blades  of  great  swords  to  the  edges  of 
tiny  books. 

When  I  left  the  museum  my  eyes  were  still 
sated  with  all  those  reflections  of  lacquer  and  jade, 
and  the  brilliant  coloring  of  geographical  charts, 
especially  on  the  days  when  the  colonel  had  read  to 
me  one  of  those  Japanese  odes,  of  a  poetic  form 
both  chaste  and  distinguished,  original  and  pro- 
found, the  streets  of  Munich  produced  a  singular 
effect  upon  me.  Japan  and  Bavaria  were  countries 
entirely  new  to  me,  both  of  which  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  at  the  same  time,  depending  on  the 
latter  for  my  knowledge  of  the  former ;  the  two 
were  mingled  confused,  in  my  brain,  until   they 


The  Blind  Emperor.  319 

seemed  one,  an  indistinct,  shadowy  land  where 
everything  was  tinged  with  the  color  blue.  That 
wandering  blue  line  which  I  had  just  seen  upon 
Japanese  cups,  sketched  in  cloudy  outline,  I 
found  again  traced  upon  the  blue  frescos  of 
the  walls  of  Munich;  blue  soldiers  were  drilling 
in  the  public  squares,  with  Japanese  helmets  on 
their  heads ;  the  vast  tranquil  vault  overhead  was 
tinged  with  the  blue  of  the  forget-me-not;  and  it 
was  a  coachman  in  blue  livery  who  had  taken  me 
to  that  hotel,  the  Grappe-Bleue ! 


A  SAIL  ACROSS  LAKE  STARNBERG. 

In  the  blue  country  also  was  that  shining  lake 
whose  sparkling  image  I  still  recall.  Merely  in 
writing  the  word  "  Starnberg "  I  saw  again  that 
great  sheet  of  water  close  to  Munich,  its  smooth 
surface  reflecting  all  the  sky  above ;  the  smoke  of  a 
little  streamer  which  sails  along  its  shores  lends  a 
certain  life  and  homelike  air  to  the  picture.  On 
every  side  rise  the  sombre  masses  formed  by  the 
foliage  of  extensive  parks,  separated  from  each 
other  in  places  by  villas,  which  make  white,  gleam- 
ing gaps  here  and  there.  At  a  still  greater  ele- 
vation, villages  with  roofs  crowded  close  together, 
nest-like  houses,  built  upon  every  acclivity;  and 
looming  above  these  rise  the  distant  Tyrol  moun- 
tains, the  color  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  they 


320  Monday  Tales. 

seem  to  float,  and  in  one  corner  of  this  picture  a 
scarcely  classic  but  very  charming  figure  in  long 
gaiters  and  red,  silver-buttoned  waistcoat,  —  the 
old,  old  ferryman  who  cruised  about  with  me  one 
whole  Sunday,  and  seemed  so  proud  to  have  a 
Frenchman  in  his  boat. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  had  this  honor. 
He  remembered  very  well  that  in  his  youth  he  had 
once  ferried  an  officer  across  the  lake.  That  was 
sixty  years  ago,  and  from  the  respectful  fashion  in 
which  the  worthy  fellow  spoke  to  me,  I  could  judge 
what  impression  had  been  made  upon  him  by  that 
Frenchman  of  1806,  some  gallant  Oswald  of  the 
First  Empire,  in  tights  and  hunting-boots,  wearing 
a  gigantic  schapska,  and  all  the  insolence  of  a  con- 
queror !  If  the  ferryman  of  Starnberg  is  alive  to- 
day, I  doubt  whether  he  has  so  much  admiration 
for  Frenchmen. 

Upon  that  beautiful  lake  and  in  the  open  parks 
surrounding  the  residential  part  of  the  city,  the 
citizens  of  Munich  disported  themselves  of  a  Sab- 
bath, on  pleasure  bent.  The  war  had  not  caused 
the  slightest  departure  from  this  custom.  On  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  I  saw  in  passing  that  the  inns 
were  full  of  people.  Corpulent  dames  were  seated 
in  a  circle,  their  skirts  appearing  upon  the  lawn 
like  balloons.  Between  the  branches,  which  almost 
touched  each  other  above  the  blue  sheet  of  water, 
groups  of  Gretchens  and  students  passed  by, 
wreathed  in  a  nimbus  of  smoke  from  their  pipes. 
A  little  farther  on,  in  a  glade  of  Maximilian  Park, 
a  bridal  party  of  gaudily  dressed,  boisterous  peas- 


The  Blind  Emperor.  321 

ants  were  drinking  before  long,  trestle-like  tables, 
while  a  green-coated  game-keeper,  standing  with 
his  gun  in  his  hand,  in  the  attitude  of  one  about  to 
fire,  was  demonstrating  the  power  of  that  marvel- 
lous needle-gun  of  which  the  Prussians  had  made 
use  so  successfully.  But  for  that  sight,  I  would 
scarcely  have  remembered  that  fighting  was  in 
progress  but  a  few  leagues  from  us.  Yet  so  it 
was,  and  the  fact  was  perfectly  credible ;  for  that 
very  evening  on  my  return  to  Munich,  I  saw  upon 
a  little  place,  as  sheltered  and  isolated  as  some 
church-nook,  candles  burning  around  the  Marien- 
Saule,  and  women  were  kneeling  before  it,  their 
prayers  shaken  by  prolonged  sobs. 


VI. 

BAVARIA. 

In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  written  for  some 
years  past  upon  French  chauvinism  and  our  patri- 
otic follies,  vanities,  and  fanfaronades,  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  is  in  all  Europe  a  more  boastful, 
vainglorious  people,  or  one  more  infatuated  with 
themselves,  than  the  people  of  Bavaria.  All  its 
small  history,  ten  detached  pages  of  the  history  of 
Germany,  is  inscribed  upon  the  streets  of  Munich 
in  gigantic,  disproportionate  features,  in  paintings 
and  monuments,  like  one  of  those  toy  Christmas- 
books  meant  merely  for  children,  with  scarcely 
anything  by  way  of  text,  but  full  of  pictures.     In 


322  Monday   Tales, 

Paris  we  have  only  one  Arc  de  Triomphe,  —  there 
they  have  ten  triumphal  arches,  a  Gate  of  Victory, 
a  Marshals'  Porch,  and  I  dare  not  say  how  many 
obelisks  stand  there,  erected  in  commemoration  of 
the  bravery  of  Bavarian  warriors. 

It  is  something  to  be  a  great  man  in  that 
country.  One  is  sure  of  having  his  name  engraved 
everywhere  in  stone  and  bronze ;  at  least  one  statue 
of  him  will  stand  in  some  public  place,  or  sur- 
mounting some  frieze,  amid  white  marble  figures 
of  victory.  This  insane  fondness  for  statues, 
apotheoses,  and  commemorative  monuments  is 
carried  to  such  an  extent  that  at  every  street- 
corner  there  are  empty  pedestals,  erected  in  readi- 
ness for  the  unknown  celebrities  whom  to-morrow 
may  bring  forth.  By  this  time  every  place  must 
be  occupied,  —  the  war  of  1870  furnished  them  with 
so  many  heroes,  so  many  glorious  episodes. 

For  instance,  it  pleases  me  to  fancy  that  I  see 
the  illustrious  General  von  der  Than,  clad  in 
antique  undress,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  verdant 
square,  upon  a  beautiful  pedestal,  ornamented  with 
bas-reliefs  representing  on  one  side  Bavarian 
Warriors  setting  fire  to  the  town  of  Bazeilles,  on  the 
other,  Bavarian  Warriors  assassinating  wounded 
French  soldiers  at  the  field-hospital  of  Woerth. 
What  a  splendid  monument  that  would  make  ! 

Not  content  with  having  their  great  men  scat- 
tered in  this  fashion  over  the  entire  city,  the 
Bavarians  have  reunited  them  all  in  a  Temple 
situated  at  the  city  gates,  and  named  the  Ruhmes- 
halle  (Hall  of  Fame).      Beneath    a  vast  portico 


The  Blind  Emperor.  323 

of  marble  columns  whose  projecting  angles  form 
three  sides  of  a  square,  arranged  upon  consoles, 
are  the  basts  of  electors,  kings,  generals,  juriscon- 
sults, etc.  A  catalogue  may  be  obtained  in  the 
custodian's  room. 

Slightly  in  front  rises  a  colossal  statue,  Bavaria 
herself,  ninety  feet  high,  standing  at  the  summit  oi 
one  of  those  great  gloomy  staircases  which  are 
open  to  the  air  on  all  sides,  and  rise  in  the  midst 
of  verdurous  public  gardens.  With  a  lion-skin 
upon  her  shoulders,  her  sword  clenched  in  one 
hand,  in  the  other  the  crown  of  Fame  {Fame 
always!)  this  immense  bronze  figure,  at  the  hour 
when  I  saw  it,  towards  the  close  of  one  of  those 
August  days  when  the  shadows  lengthen  enor- 
mously, filled  the  silent  plain  with  its  emphatic 
gesture.  All  around,  a  stretch  of  columns,  and 
profiles  of  celebrated  men  grimacing  in  the  setting 
sun.  The  scene  was  so  deserted,  so  dismal !  And 
as  I  heard  the  sound  of  my  own  footsteps  echoing 
upon  the  flaggings,  there  returned  to  me  again 
that  impression  of  emptiness  and  grandeur  com- 
bined which  had  pursued  me  since  the  moment  of 
my  arrival  in  Munich. 

Through  the  interior  of  Bavaria  runs  a  little 
winding,  cast-iron  staircase.  The  whim  seized  me, 
and  I  climbed  to  the  very  top  and  seated  myself 
for  a  moment  in  the  head  of  the  colossus,  a  tiny 
rotunda-like  room,  lighted  by  two  windows  which 
formed  the  eyes  of  Bavaria.  In  spite  of  those 
open  eyes  facing  the  blue  horizon  of  the  Alps,  it 
was  very  hot   in   that   little  room.     The    bronze, 


324  Monday   Tales. 

warmed  by  the  sun,  enveloped  me  in  an  oppres- 
sive heat,  and  I  was  obliged  to  descend  again  very 
quickly.  Nevertheless,  I  was  there  long  enough 
to  know  thee,  O  mighty  Bavaria !  big-voiced  and 
grandiloquent.  I  have  seen  thy  chest  without  a 
heart,  thy  huge  arms,  like  those  of  some  singer, 
puffy  and  without  muscles,  thy  sword  of  wrought 
metal,  and  I  have  discovered  in  thy  hollow  head 
the  dull  drunkenness  and  torpor  of  the  beer- 
drinker's  brain.  And  to  think  that,  in  embarking 
upon  that  mad  war  of  1870,  our  diplomats  counted 
upon  thee  !  Ah  !  if  they  too  had  only  taken  the 
trouble  to  ascend  Bavaria. 


VII. 

THE   BLIND   EMPEROR. 

I  HAD  been  ten  days  in  Munich  without  receiv- 
ing the  slightest  news  of  my  tragedy.  I  had  begun 
to  despair,  when  one  evening  in  the  little  beer- 
garden  where  we  were  taking  our  meals,  I  saw  my 
colonel  appear  with  a  radiant  countenance.  "  I 
have  it,"  he  said ;  "  come  to-morrow  morning  to 
the  museum.  We  will  read  it  together ;  you  shall 
see  for  yourself  how  fine  it  is."  He  was  very  ani- 
mated that  evening.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he 
spoke.  He  declaimed  quite  loudly  whole  passages 
of  the  tragedy,  trying  to  sing  the  choruses.  Two 
or  three  times  his  niece  was  obliged  to  make  some 


The  Blind  Emperor,  325 

attempt  at  restraining  him,  with  her  "  Ouncle", 
ouncU  !  "  I  attributed  this  fever  and  exaltation  to 
genuine  lyric  enthusiasm.  And  indeed  the  frag- 
ments that  he  recited  to  me  seemed  very  beautiful, 
and  I  was  in  haste  to  obtain  possession  of  my 
masterpiece. 

The  following  day,  when  I  arrived  in  the  court- 
garden  I  was  much  surprised  to  find  the  collection 
hall  closed.  For  the  colonel  to  be  absent  from  his 
museum  was  so  extraordinary  an  event  that  as  I 
hastened  to  his  quarters  a  vague  fear  took  posses- 
sion of  me.  The  street  where  he  dwelt  was  a  little 
out  of  the  city,  a  short,  quiet  street,  with  gardens 
and  low  houses ;  it  was  less  quiet  than  usual ; 
groups  of  people  were  talking  in  the  doorways. 
The  door  of  the  Sieboldt  house  was  closed,  the 
shutters  open.  People  were  entering  it,  leaving  it, 
with  sorrow  in  their  mien.  One  could  feel  that 
this  was  one  of  those  catastrophes  too  large  for  a 
single  home  to  hold  it,  and  that  it  had  overleaped 
its  confines  and  invaded  the  street  as  well.  As  I 
entered  I  heard  sobs.  They  came  from  the  rear 
of  a  little  passage,  where  was  a  large  room  as 
well-lighted  and  crowded  with  objects  as  a  school- 
room. In  it  was  a  long,  white,  wooden  table, 
books,  manuscripts,  glass  cases  for  collections, 
albums  covered  with  embroidered  silk,  and  upon 
the  wall,  Japanese  armor,  engravings,  big  geograph- 
ical charts,  and  amid  all  this  disorder  of  study 
and  travel  the  colonel  lay  stretched  upon  his 
bed,  his  long,  straight  beard  resting  upon  his 
chest,  while  weeping,  at  one  side,  knelt  the  poor 


326  Monday   Tales, 

little  "  ouncleT     Colonel    Sieboldt   had  died   sud- 
denly in  the  night. 

I  left  Munich  the  same  evening,  not  having  the 
heart  to  disturb  so  much  sorrow  merely  for  the 
sake  of  a  literary  fantasy,  and  so  it  was  that  I  never 
knew  more  of  that  marvellous  Japanese  tragedy 
than  the  mere  title:  The  Blind  Emperor !  Since 
that  day  we  have  seen  another  tragedy  enacted  for 
which  that  title  imported  from  Germany  would 
have  been  most  appropriate ;  sinister  indeed  it 
was,  Kut  not  Japanese,  that  tragedy  full  of  blood 
and  tears. 


LETTERS    FROM    MY   MILL 
LETTERS    TO    AN    ABSENT   ONE 


CONTENTS. 


LETTERS    FROM    MY    MILL. 

Page 

Preamble  .    ; vii 

Taking  Possession i 

The  Beaucaire  Diligence -5 

The  Secret  of  Maitre  Cornille 10 

M.  Seguin's  Goat 18 

The  Stars 27 

The  Arlesian  Girl 35 

^  The  Pope's  Mule 41 

The  Lighthouse 55 

The  Wreck  of  the  "  S6millante  "     . 63 

Custom-house  People 72 

I  The  Cure  of  Cucugnan 78 

Aged  Folk 86 

Prose  Ballads: 

The  Death  of  the  Dauphin    .          , 96 

The  Sub-prefect  in  the  Fields 100 

Bixiou's  Portfolio 105 

The  Legend  of  the  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain   .  112 

The  Poet  Mistral Il8 

Oranges 127 

|L  The  Two  Inns *32 

At  Milianah * ,    .    .  138 

The  Locusts *    >  *53 


/ 


vl  Contents. 


The  Elixir  of  the  Reverend  Pere  Gaucher     .    , 

In  Camargue      

Barrack  Homesickness 186 


Pagk 

172 


LETTERS  TO  AN  ABSENT   ONE. 

The  Surrender ,<>, 

The  Dictators I9g 

A  Mushroom  Bed  of  Great  Men 204 

ROCHEFORT   AND   ROSSIGNOL 211 

The  Sentry-box 2Ig 

The  Tricoteuse 225 

A  Year  of  Trouble .    .  233 


PREAMBLE. 

BEFORE  Maitre  Honorat  Grapazi,  notary  of  the 
district  of  Pampe>igouste 

Appeared : 

The  Sieur  Gaspard  Mitifio,  husband  of  Vivette 
Cornille,  owner  of  the  property  called  "  Les 
Cigalieres"  and  there  residing: 

The  same  t>y  these  presents  has  sold  and  con- 
veyed under  warranty  of  right  and  possession,  free 
of  all  debt,  claims  and  mortgages, 

To  the  Sieur  Alphonse  Daudet,  poet,  residing 
in  Paris,  here  present  and  accepting, 

A  windmill  for  flour,  situated  in  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone,  and  in  the  heart  of  Provence,  on  a  hillside, 
wooded  with  pine  and  live-oak ;  the  said  mill  being 
abandoned  for  twenty  years  or  more,  and  therefore 
unfit  for  grinding,  as  appears  from  the  wild  vines, 
mosses,  rosemarys,  and  other  parasitical  growths 
which  have  climbed  its  sails ; 

Notwithstanding  which,  such  as  it  is  and  appears 
with  its  great  wheel  broken  and  its  platform  where 
the  grass  is  growing  between  the  bricks,  the  Sieur 
Daudet  declares  that  finding  the  said  mill  to  his 
liking  and  serviceable  to  his  works  of  poesy,  he 


vm  Preamble, 

accepts  the  same  at  his  risks  and  perils,  and  with- 
out any  claim  whatsoever  against  the  vendor  for 
repairs  which  may  have  to  be  made. 

This  sale  is  concluded  in  the  lump  for  the  sum 
agreed  upon,  which  the  Sieur  Daudet  placed  and 
deposited  on  the  desk  in  current  coin,  the  which 
sum  was  immediately  touched  and  withdrawn  by 
the  Sieur  Mitifio,  within  sight  of  the  undersigned 
notary  and  witnesses,  for  which  receipt  is  given. 

Deed  done  at  Pamperigouste  in  the  office  of 
Honorat  Grapazi,  in  presence  of  Francet  Mamaf, 
fife-player,  and  Louiset,  called  le  Quique,  cross- 
bearer  of  the  White  Penitents ; 

Who  have  signed  with  the  parties  and  the  no- 
tary after  reading  of  the  deed. 


LETTERS  FROM  MY  MILL 


I. 

TAKING   POSSESSION. 

'TWAS  the  rabbits  who  were  astonished!  So 
long  had  they  seen  the  mill-door  closed,  the  walls 
and  the  platform  invaded  by  verdure,  that  they  had 
come  to  think  the  race  of  millers  was  extinct ;  and 
finding  the  place  convenient,  they  made  it,  as  it 
were,  a  sort  of  headquarters,  a  centre  of  strategi- 
cal operations,  —  the  Jemmapes  mill  of  rabbits. 
The  night  of  my  arrival,  there  were  fully,  with- 
out exaggeration,  a  score  sitting  in  a  circle  on 
the  platform,  warming  their  paws  in  the  moon- 
shine. One  second  to  open  a  window,  and,  scat ! 
away  went  the  bivouac,  routed ;  all  the  little  white 
behinds  scurrying  away,  tails  up,  into  the  thicket. 
I  hope  they  will  come  back  again. 

Another  much  astonished  individual  was  the 
tenant  of  the  first  floor,  a  solemn  old  owl  with 
the  head  of  a  thinker,  who  has  lived  in  the  mill 
for  over  twenty  years.  I  found  him  in  the  upper 
chamber,  motionless  and  erect  on  the  horizontal 
shaft,  in  the  midst  of  the  plaster  rubbish  and  fallen 
rpof-tiles.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  his 
I 


2  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

round  eye ;  then,  alarmed  at  not  knowing  me,  he 
began  to  say,  "  Hoo !  hoo !  "  and  to  shake  his 
wings  heavily,  gray  with  dust  —  those  devilish 
thinkers  !  they  never  brush  themselves.  .  .  Well ! 
never  mind,  whatever  he  is,  with  his  blinking  eyes 
and  his  scowling  look,  this  silent  tenant  pleased 
me,  and  I  hastened  to  beg  him  to  renew  his  lease. 
He  now  occupies,  as  before,  the  whole  upper  part 
of  the  mill  with  an  entrance  from  the  roof;  I  re- 
serve to  myself  the  lower  room,  a  small  white- 
washed room,  low  and  vaulted  like  a  convent 
refectory. 

It  is  from  there  that  I  write  to  you,  with  the 
door  wide  open  to  the  good  sun. 

A  pretty  pine  wood,  sparkling  with  light,  runs 
down  before  me  to  the  foot  of  the  slope.  On  the 
horizon,  the  Alpilles  outline  their  delicate  crests. 
No  noise.  Faintly,  afar,  the  sound  of  a  fife,  a  cur- 
lew amid  the  lavender,  the  mule-bells  on  the  high- 
way. .  .  All  this  beautiful  Provencal  landscape 
lives  by  light. 

And  now,  think  you  I  could  regret  your  noisy, 
darksome  Paris?  I  am  so  well-off  in  my  mill !  It 
is  so  exactly  the  spot  I  was  looking  for,  a  warm 
little  fragrant  corner,  far  from  newspapers,  cabs, 
and  fog !  .  .  And  what  pretty  things  about  me ! 
It  is  scarcely  a  week  since  I  came,  and  yet  my 
head  is  already  stuffed  full  of  impressions  and 
memories.  Tenez !  no  later  than  last  evening  I 
watched  the  return  of  the  flocks  to  the  mas  (farm) 
which  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  slope;   and  I  de- 


Taking  Possession.  3 

clare  to  you  I  would  not  give  that  sight  for  all  the 
u  first  nights "  that  you  have  had  in  Paris  this 
week.     You  shall  judge. 

I  must  tell  you  that  in  Provence  it  is  the  custom, 
as  it  is  in  Switzerland,  to  send  the  flocks  to  the 
mountains  on  the  coming  of  hot  weather.  Ani- 
mals and  men  spend  five  or  six  months  up  there 
under  the  stars,  in  grass  to  their  bellies;  then, 
at  the  first  chill  of  autumn,  down  they  come  to  the 
mas  and  feed  after  that  on  the  little  gray  foot-hills 
that  are  fragrant  with  rosemary.  So  last  night 
they  came.  The  gates  awaited  them,  wide  open ; 
the  folds  were  filled  with  fresh  straw.  From  hour 
to  hour  the  people  said :  "  Now  they  are  at  Eygui- 
eres  —  now  at  the  Paradou."  Then,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, towards  evening,  a  great  shout :  "  Here  they 
come !  "  and  away  off  in  the  distance  I  could  see 
the  flocks  advancing  in  a  halo  of  dust.  The  whole 
road  seemed  to  be  marching  with  them.  The  old 
rams  came  first,  horns  in  front  with  a  savage  air; 
after  them  the  ruck  of  the  sheep,  the  mothers 
rather  weary,  their  nurslings  beside  them;  the 
mules,  with  red  pompons,  carrying  in  baskets 
the  day-old  lambkins,  which  they  rocked  as  they 
walked;  then  came  the  dogs,  their  tongues  to 
earth,  perspiring,  and  two  tall  shepherd  rascals 
swathed  in  red  serge  mantles  which  fell  to  their 
heels  like  copes. 

All  this  defiles  before  me  joyously  with  a  pat- 
tering sound  like  rain,  and  is  swallowed  through 
the  gateway.  You  should  see  what  excitement 
in  the  farm !     From  their  high  perches  the  green 


4  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

and  gold  peacocks  with  their  tulle  crests,  have 
recognized  the  new-comers  and  hail  them  with 
a  formidable  trumpet-blast.  The  poultry  yard, 
which  was  going  to  sleep,  wakes  up  with  a  start. 
All  are  afoot,  pigeons,  ducks,  turkeys,  guinea-fowl. 
They  all  seem  crazy;  even  the  hens  talk  of  sitting 
up  all  night!  One  would  really  think  that  each 
sheep  had  brought  back  in  its  wool  with  the  fra- 
grance of  the  wild  Alp  a  little  of  that  keen  moun- 
tain air  which  intoxicates  and  sets  one  dancing. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  racket,  the  flocks  regain 
their  abode.  Nothing  can  be  more  charming  than 
this  re-entrance.  The  old  rams  are  tenderly  moved 
at  seeing  their  old  cribs ;  the  lambs,  even  the  little 
ones  born  on  the  journey  who  had  never  seen  the 
farm,  look  about  them  in  amazement. 

But  most  touching  of  all  are  the  dogs,  those 
brave  shepherd  dogs,  full  of  business  about  their 
flocks  and  seeing  nought  else  in  the  mas.  In  vain 
does  the  watch-dog  call  to  them  from  his  kennel ; 
the  well-bucket  full  of  fresh  water  entices  them  in 
vain ;  they  see  nothing,  hear  nothing  till  the  flocks 
are  housed,  the  big  bolt  run  on  the  wicket  gate, 
and  the  shepherds  at  table  in  the  lower  room. 
Then  and  not  till  then,  they  consent  to  go  to 
kennel,  and  there,  while  lapping  their  porringers 
of  soup,  they  tell  their  farm  comrades  what  things 
they  have  done  up  there  on  the  mountains,  a 
gloomy  place,  where  there  are  wolves,  and  great 
crimson  foxgloves  full  of  dew  to  the  brim* 


The  Beaticairc  Diligence, 


II. 

THE   BEAUCAIRE   DILIGENCE. 

It  was  the  day  of  my  arrival  at  this  place.  I 
had  taken  the  diligence  of  Beaucaire,  a  worthy 
old  vehicle  that  has  no  great  distance  to  go  before 
she  gets  home,  but  which  loiters,  nevertheless,  by 
the  way,  to  have  an  air,  in  the  evening,  of  coming 
from  afar.  We  were  five  on  the  imperial,  not 
counting  the  conductor. 

First,  a  keeper  of  the  Camargue,  a  small,  stock)'', 
hairy  man,  smelling  of  his  wild  life,  with  big, 
bloodshot  eyes  and  silver  ear-rings.  Then  two 
Beaucairese,  a  baker  and  his  journeyman,  both 
very  red,  very  short-winded,  but  splendid  in  profile, 
two  Roman  coins  bearing  the  effigy  of  Vitellius. 
Lastly,  on  the  front  seat,  beside  the  conductor,  a 
man  —  no,  a  cap,  an  enormous  squirrel-skin  cap, 
who  said  little  or  nothing  and  gazed  at  the  road 
with  a  melancholy  air. 

All  these  persons  knew  each  other,  and  talked 
aloud  of  their  affairs  very  freely.  The  man  of  the 
Camargue  told  that  he  was  coming  from  Ntmes, 
where  he  had  been  summoned  before  an  examin- 
ing-judge  to  answer  for  a  blow  with  a  scythe  given 
to  a  shepherd.  They  have  such  hot  blood  in 
Camargue !  —  and  in  Beaucaire  too !  Did  not 
these  very  two  Beaucairese  try  to  cut  each  other's 


6  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

throats  apropos  of  the  Blessed  Virgin?  It  seemed 
that  the  baker  belonged  to  a  parish  church  that 
was  vowed  to  the  Madonna,  the  one  whom  the 
Provencals  call  "  the  good  mother "  and  who  car- 
ries the  little  Jesus  in  her  arms.  The  journeyman, 
on  the  contrary,  sang  in  the  choir  of  a  new  church 
dedicated  to  the  Immaculate  Conception,  that  beau- 
tiful smiling  image  represented  with  pendent  arms 
and  her  hands  full  of  sun-rays.  Hence  the  quarrel. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  how  those  two  good 
Catholics  treated  each  other,  they  and  their 
madonnas :  — 

"  She  is  a  pretty  one,  your  immaculate  !  " 

"  Get  away  with  your  good  mother !  " 

"  She  saw  queer  things,  that  one  of  yours,  in 
Palestine !  " 

"  And  yours,  hoo !  the  fright !  Who  knows 
what  she  didn't  do?     Ask  Saint  Joseph." 

As  if  to  remind  me  of  the  harbour  of  Naples, 
knives  were  on  the  point  of  glittering,  and,  upon 
my  word,  I  believe  the  theological  battle  would 
have  ended  that  way  if  the  conductor  had  not 
come  to  the  rescue. 

"  Let  us  alone  with  your  madonnas,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing, to  the  two  Beaucairese ;  "  all  that  is  women's 
talk,  men  should  n't  meddle  in  such  things." 

Thereupon  he  cracked  his  whip  with  a  scepti- 
cal little  air  which  brought  every  one  round  to  his 
opinion. 

The  discussion  ended ;  but  the  baker,  set  a-go- 
ing, felt  the  need  of  letting   out  the   remains    of 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence,  7 

his  ardour ;  so,  turning  to  the  unfortunate  cap,  sad 
and  silent  in  his  corner,  he  said  with  a  jeering  air : 

"  And  your  wife,  knife-grinder,  what  parish  does 
she  belong  to  now?  " 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  some  very  comical 
meaning  was  in  those  words,  for  the  whole  impe- 
rial went  off  into  roars  of  laughter.  The  knife- 
grinder  alone  did  not  laugh.  He  seemed  not  to 
hear.     Observing  that,  the  baker  turned  to  me. 

"  You  don't  know  about  his  wife,  monsieur ;  a 
queer  one,  I  can  tell  you.  There  are  not  two  like 
her  in  all  Beaucaire." 

The  laughs  redoubled.  The  knife-grinder  did 
not  stir ;  he  contented  himself  by  saying  in  a  low 
voice :  — 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  baker." 

But  that  devil  of  a  baker  had  no  idea  of  holding 
his  tongue,  and  he  began  again,  more  jeering  than 
ever : — 

"  Vtidase  !  The  comrade  is  not  to  be  pitied  for 
having  a  wife  like  that.  Can't  be  bored  one  minute 
with  her.  Just  think  !  a  beauty  who  gets  some  one 
to  elope  with  her  every  six  months  has  plenty  to 
tell  you  when  she  comes  back.  But  for  all  that, 
it  is  a  queer  little  household.  Just  imagine,  mon- 
sieur, they  hadn't  been  married  a  year  when,  paf! 
away  went  the  wife  to  Spain  with  a  chocolate- 
maker.  The  husband,  he  stayed  at  home,  weep- 
ing and  drinking.  He  was  almost  crazy.  By  and 
by  the  wife  came  home,  dressed  as  a  Spanish  girl 
and  carrying  a  tambourine.  We  all  said  to  her: 
*  Hide,  hide,  he  '11  kill  you  ! '     Kill  her,  indeed  !  not 


8  Letters  from  My  Mill 

he !  They  lived  together  as  tranquil  as  ever,  and 
she  taught  him  to  play  the  tambourine." 

Here  a  fresh  explosion  of  laughter.  In  his 
corner,  without  raising  his  head,  the  knife-grinder 
murmured  again :  — 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  baker." 

The  baker  paid  no  attention,  but  continued :  — 

"  You  may  perhaps  think,  monsieur,  that  after 
her  return  from  Spain  the  beauty  would  have  kept 
quiet.  Not  she !  The  husband  had  taken  the 
thing  so  well,  she  thought  she  would  try  again. 
After  the  Spaniard  came  an  officer,  then  a  Rhone 
boatman,  then  a  musician,  then  a — I  don't  know 
who.  The  funny  thing  is  that  each  time  it  is  the 
same  comedy.  The  wife  elopes,  the  husband 
weeps;  she  returns  and  he's  consoled.  And  still 
she  is  carried  off,  and  still  he  takes  her  back.  Don't 
you  think  he  has  patience,  that  husband?  It  must 
be  said  that  she  is  mighty  pretty,  that  little  woman, 
a  cardinal's  dainty  bit,  lively,  dimpled,  plump,  with 
a  white  skin  and  a  pair  of  nut-brown  eyes  that  look 
at  the  men  with  a  laugh.  I'  faith,  Parisian,  if  you 
ever  come  back  through  Beaucaire  —  " 

"  Oh !  hold  your  tongue,  baker,  I  beg  of  you," 
said  the  unfortunate  man  again,  in  a  heart-rending 
tone  of  voice. 

At  this  moment  the  diligence  stopped.  We 
had  reached  the  mas  des  Angloires.  The  two 
bakers  got  out,  and  I  assure  you  I  did  not  regret 
them.  Sorry  jester !  We  could  hear  him  still 
laughing  in  the  farm-yard. 

The  bakers  having  departed  and  the  Camargue 


The  Beaucaire  Diligence.  9 

man  being  left  at  Aries,  the  imperial  seemed  empty. 
The  conductor  got  down  and  walked  beside  his 
horses.  We  were  alone  in  our  corners,  the  knife- 
grinder  and  I,  without  speaking.  It  was  hot ;  the 
leather  hood  of  the  vehicle  seemed  burning.  At 
times  I  felt  my  eyes  closing  and  my  head  getting 
heavy,  but  I  could  not  sleep.  Always  in  my  ears 
I  heard  that  "  Hold  your  tongue,  I  beg  of  you," 
so  gentle  yet  so  agonizing.  Neither  could  he,  the 
poor  soul,  sleep.  From  behind  I  saw  his  big 
shoulders  shudder  and  his  hand  —  a  long,  pallid, 
stupid  hand  —  trembling  on  the  back  of  the  seat, 
like  the  hand  of  an  aged  man.     He  wept. 

"  Here  you  are,  at  your  place,  Parisian,"  cried 
the  conductor,  suddenly,  pointing  with  the  end  of 
his  whip  to  my  green  hill  with  the  windmill 
pinned  upon  it  like  a  big  butterfly. 

I  hastened  to  get  out.  Passing  the  knife-grinder 
I  tried  to  look  at  him  beneath  his  cap ;  I  wanted 
to  see  him  before  I  left.  As  if  he  had  fathomed 
my  thought,  the  unhappy  man  raised  his  head 
abruptly  and  planting  his  eyes  in  mine  he  said  in 
a  hollow  voice  :  — 

"  Look  at  me  well,  friend ;  and  if,  one  of  these 
days,  you  hear  there  has  been  trouble  in  Beaucaire 
you  can  say  that  you  know  the  man  who  struck  the 
blow." 

The  face  was  dull  and  sad,  with  small  and  faded 
eyes.  There  were  tears  in  those  eyes ;  but  in  the 
voice  there  was  hatred.  Hatred  is  the  anger  of 
the  weak !  If  I  were  that  wife,  I  should  beware 
of  it. 


IO  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


III. 

THE  SECRET  OF   MAITRE   CORNILLE. 

FRANCET  MAMAI,  an  old  fife-player,  who  comes 
from  time  to  time  to  make  a  night  of  it  with  me, 
drinking  boiled  wine,  related  the  other  evening 
a  little  village  drama  of  which  my  mill  was  the  wit- 
ness some  twenty  years  ago.  The  old  man's  story 
touched  me,  and  I  shall  try  to  tell  it  to  you  just  as 
I  heard  it. 

Imagine,  for  the  moment,  my  dear  readers,  that 
you  are  sitting  before  a  pot  of  fragrant  wine  and 
that  an  old  Provencal  fife-player  is  speaking  to 
you. 

Our  countryside,  my  good  monsieur,  was  not 
always  such  a  dead  region  and  without  renown  as 
it  is  to-day.  There  was  a  time  when  the  millers 
did  a  great  trade,  and  from  ten  leagues  round  the 
farmers  brought  us  their  wheat  to  grind.  The 
hills  all  about  the  village  were  covered  with  wind- 
mills. To  right  and  left  one  saw  nothing  but  sails 
twirling  to  the  mistral  above  the  pines,  strings  of 
little  donkeys  laden  with  sacks  going  up  and  down 
the  roads ;  and  all  the  week  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear  on  the  heights  the  crack  of  the  whips,  the 
rattle  of  the  sails  and  the  Dia  hue  I  of  the  millers' 


The  Secret  of  Maitre  Cornille,        1 1 

men.  On  Sundays  we  went  to  the  mills  in  parties. 
The  millers,  they  paid  for  the  muscat.  The  wives 
were  as  fine  as  queens,  with  their  lace  kerchiefs 
and  their  gold  crosses.  I  took  my  fife  and  till 
it  was  pitch-dark  night  they  danced  the  farandole. 
Those  mills,  you  see,  they  made  the  joy  and  the 
wealth  of  our  parts. 

Unluckily  the  Paris  Frenchmen  took  an  idea 
to  establish  a  steam  flour-mill  on  the  road  to  Taras- 
con.  Fine  thing,  great  novelty !  People  took  a 
habit  of  sending  their  wheat  to  the  flour-dealers, 
and  the  poor  windmills  were  left  without  work. 
For  some  time  they  tried  to  struggle,  but  steam 
was  the  stronger,  and,  one  after  the  other,  pfoaire  ! 
they  were  forced  to  shut  up.  No  more  files  of 
little  donkeys.  The  handsome  wives  had  to  sell 
their  gold  crosses.  No  more  muscat !  no  more 
farandole !  The  mistral  might  blow,  but  the  sails 
stood  still.  And  then,  one  fine  day,  the  village 
rulers  ordered  all  those  mills  pulled  down  and 
their  place  to  be  sown  with  vines  and  olives. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  general  downfall  one 
mill  held  good  and  continued  to  turn  courageously 
on  its  knoll  before  the  very  nose  of  the  steam- 
millers.  That  was  Maitre  Cornille's  mill,  the  very 
one  where  we  are  at  this  moment. 

Maitre  Cornille  was  an  old  miller,  living  for 
sixty  years  in  flour  and  mad  for  his  business. 
The  coming  of  the  steam-millers  had  really  made 
him  half  crazy.  For  a  week  he  ran  about  the 
village  inciting   the  people  and  shouting  with  all 


1 2  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

his  might  that  they  wanted  to  poison  Provence 
with  steam  flour.  "  Don't  go  there,"  he  cried ; 
"  those  brigands  in  making  bread  use  steam,  an 
invention  of  the  devil,  whereas  I  work  by  the 
mistral  and  the  tramontana,  which  are  the  breath 
of  the  good  God."  And  he  spoke  out  a  lot  of  fine 
sayings  like  that  in  praise  of  the  windmills,  but 
nobody  listened  to  them. 

Then,  in  a  fury,  the  old  fellow  shut  himself  up  in 
his  mill  and  lived  alone,  like  a  savage  beast.  He 
would  not  even  keep  his  little  granddaughter, 
Vivette,  with  him,  a  child  of  fifteen,  who,  since 
the  death  of  her  parents,  had  no  one  but  her 
grand  in  the  world.  The  poor  little  thing  was  now 
obliged  to  earn  her  living,  and  to  hire  herself  out 
in  the  farms  wherever  she  could,  for  the  harvest, 
the  silk-worm  times,  and  the  olive-picking.  And 
yet  her  grandfather  seemed  to  love  her,  that  child. 
He  would  often  go  his  four  leagues  afoot,  in  the 
hot  sun  to  see  her  at  the  farm  where  she  worked ; 
and  when  he  was  near  her  he  would  spend  whole 
hours  gazing  at  her  and  weeping. 

In  the  neighbourhood,  people  thought  that  the 
old  miller  was  niggardly  in  sending  Vivette  away, 
and  they  said  that  it  did  not  do  him  credit  to  let 
his  granddaughter  roam  from  one  farmhouse  to 
another,  exposed  to  the  brutality  of  the  bailiffs 
and  to  all  the  miseries  of  young  girls  in  her  condi- 
tion. And  they  also  thought  it  very  wrong  of 
Maitre  Cornille,  who  up  to  this  time  had  respected 
himself,  to  go  about  the  streets  like  a  regular 
gypsy,   barefooted,   cap   in    holes,    and    trousers 


The  Secret  of  Mattre  Cornille.         1 3 

ragged.  In  fact,  on  Sundays,  when  we  saw  him 
come  in  to  mass,  we  were  ashamed  of  him,  we 
old  fellows ;  and  Cornille  felt  it  so  much  that  he 
dared  not  come  and  sit  upon  the  workmen's  bench. 
He  always  stayed  at  the  end  of  the  church,  close 
to  the  holy-water  basin,  among  the  paupers. 

In  Maitre  Cornille's  life  there  was  something 
we  could  not  make  out.  For  a  long  time  past  no 
one  in  the  village  had  taken  him  wheat,  yet  the 
sails  of  his  mill  were  always  turning,  as  before. 
At  night  the  old  miller  was  met  upon  the  roads, 
driving  before  him  his  donkey  laden  with  stout 
sacks  of  flour. 

"  Good  vespers,  Maitre  Cornille  !  "  the  peasants 
would  call  to  him.     "  So  the  mill  is  going  still? " 

"  Going  still,  my  sons,"  the  old  fellow  answered 
with  a  lively  air.  "  Thank  God,  it  is  not  work  that 
we  lack." 

Then,  if  any  one  asked  him  where  the  devil  he 
found  all  that  work,  he  would  lay  a  finger  on  his 
lips  and  answer,  gravely :  "  Mum  's  the  word  !  I 
am  working  for  exportation."  And  never  could 
anything  further  be  got  out  of  him. 

As  for  putting  your  nose  in  his  mill,  that  was  not 
to  be  thought  of.  Little  Vivette  herself  was  not 
allowed  to  enter. 

If  we  passed  in  front  of  it,  the  door  was  always 
seen  to  be  closed,  the  heavy  sails  were  in  motion, 
the  old  donkey  was  browsing  on  the  turf  of  the 
platform,  and  a  tall,  thin  cat,  taking  the  sun  on  the 
sill  of  the  window,  looked  at  us  malignantly. 

All  this  had  the  scent  of  some  mystery  about  it, 


14  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

and  made  people  gossip.  Every  one  explained  in 
his  own  way  the  secret  of  Maitre  Cornille,  but  the 
general  rumour  was  that  there  were  even  more 
sacks  of  silver  crowns  in  the  mill  than  sacks  of 
flour. 

In  the  end,  however,  all  was  found  out;  and  this 
was  how:  — 

I  discovered,  one  fine  day,  while  making  the 
young  people  dance  with  my  fife,  that  the  eldest 
of  my  sons  and  little  Vivette  were  in  love  with  each 
other.  In  my  heart  I  was  n't  sorry,  because,  after 
all,  the  name  of  Cornille  was  held  in  honour  among 
us,  and,  besides,  I  knew  it  would  give  me  pleasure 
to  see  that  pretty  little  sparrow  of  a  Vivette  hop- 
ping about  my  house.  Only,  as  the  lovers  had 
many  occasions  to  be  together,  I  wished,  for  fear 
of  accidents,  to  settle  the  thing  at  once.  So  up  I 
went  to  the  mill  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  the  grand- 
father. Ah !  the  old  wizard !  you  should  just 
have  seen  the  way  he  received  me !  Impossible 
to  make  him  open  the  door.  I  explained  the  mat- 
ter as  well  as  I  could  through  the  keyhole;  and 
all  the  while  that  I  was  speaking,  that  rascally  lean 
cat  was  puffing  like  a  devil  above  my  head. 

The  old  man  did  n't  give  me  time  to  finish,  but 
shouted  to  me,  most  uncivilly,  to  get  back  to  my 
fife,  and  that  if  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  marry  my 
son,  I  could  go  and  get  a  girl  at  the  steam-mill. 
You  can  think  if  my  blood  did  n't  rise  to  hear  such 
words ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  had  wisdom  enough  to 
control  myself,  and,  leaving  the  old  madman  in  his 


The  Secret  of  Maitre  Cornille.         15 

mill,  I  returned  to  tell  the  children  of  my  failure. 
Poor  lambs  !  they  could  not  believe  it ;  they  begged 
me,  as  a  favour,  to  let  them  go  to  the  mill  them- 
selves and  speak  to  grandpapa.  I  had  n't  the 
courage  to  refuse,  and  prrrt !  off  went  my  lovers. 

When  they  got  to  the  mill,  Maitre  Cornille  had 
just  gone  out.  The  door  was  locked  and  double- 
locked,  but  the  old  man  had  left  his  ladder  outside, 
and  immediately  the  idea  came  to  the  children  to 
get  in  through  the  window  and  see  what  was  really 
going  on  inside  of  the  famous  mill. 

Singular  thing !  the  room  of  the  millstone  was 
empty.  Not  a  sack,  not  a  grain  of  wheat,  not  the 
slightest  sign  of  flour  on  the  walls  or  the  spiders' 
webs  !  There  was  not  even  that  good  warm  smell 
of  crushed  wheat  that  scents  a  mill  so  pleasantly. 
The  horizontal  bar  was  covered  with  dust,  and  the 
great  lean  cat  was  sleeping  on  it. 

The  lower  room  had  the  same  air  of  utter  pov- 
erty and  abandonment,  —  a  wretched  bed,  a  few 
rags,  a  morsel  of  bread  on  a  step  of  the  stair- 
way, and,  in  a  corner,  three  or  four  worn-out 
sacks,  from  which  oozed  plaster  rubbish  and  chalky 
earth. 

There  was  the  secret  of  Maitre  Cornille  !  It  was 
planter  rubbish  that  he  carried  in  the  evening 
along  the  roads  to  save  the  honour  of  the  mill  and 
to  make  believe  it  was  grinding  flour  !  Poor  mill ! 
Poor  Cornille  !  For  many  a  long  day  the  steam- 
mill  had  robbed  them  of  their  last  customer.  The 
sails  still  turned,  but  the  millstone  revolved  in  a 
void. 


1 6  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

The  children  returned  in  tears,  and  told  me 
what  they  had  seen.  My  heart  almost  burst  as  I 
listened.  Not  losing  a  minute,  I  ran  to  the  neigh- 
bours ;  I  told  them  the  thing  in  a  word,  and  we  all 
agreed  that  we  must  at  once  carry  what  wheat 
there  was  in  the  village  to  Cornille's  mill.  No 
sooner  said  than  done.  The  whole  village  started, 
and  we  arrived  at  the  top  with  a  procession  of  don- 
keys laden  with  wheat,  —  real  wheat,  that  was ! 

The  mill  was  wide  open.  Before  the  door 
Maitre  Cornille,  seated  on  a  sack  of  plaster,  was 
weeping,  his  head  in  his  hands.  He  had  just  dis- 
covered, on  returning,  that  during  his  absence 
some  one  had  entered  the  mill  and  surprised  his 
sad  secret. 

"  Poor  me  !  "  he  was  saying.  "  There  's  nothing 
for  me  to  do  now  but  to  die.  The  mill  is  dis- 
honoured." 

And  he  sobbed  to  break  one's  heart,  calling  his 
mill  all  sorts  of  names,  and  talking  to  it  as  if  to  a 
real  person. 

At  this  moment  the  donkeys  appeared  on  the 
terrace,  and  we  all  began  to  shout  very  loud,  as  in 
the  good  old  days  of  the  millers :  — 
'  "  Ohe  !  the  mill !     Ohe  !   Maitre  Cornille  !  " 

And  there  were  the  sacks  piled  up  before*the 
door,  and  the  fine  ruddy  grain  spilling  over  to 
the  ground  on  all  sides. 

Maitre  Cornille  opened  his  eyes  very  wide.  In 
the  hollow  of  his  old  hand  he  scooped  up  some  of 
the  wheat  and  said,  laughing  and  weeping  to* 
gether : — 


The  Secret  of  Mattre  Cornille.         i? 

"  It  is  wheat !  .  .  Lord  God  !  .  .  Good  vheat ! 
Let  me  alone,  let  me  look  at  it." 

Then,  turning  towards  us,  he  added :  — 

"  Ah !  I  knew  you  would  all  come  back  to  me. 
Those  steam-mill  fellows  are  thieves." 

We  wanted  to  carry  him  off  in  triumph  to  the 
village. 

"  No,  no,  children,"  he  said.  "  I  must  first  feed 
my  mill.  Just  think  how  long  it  is  since  she  had  a 
morsel  between  her  teeth  !  " 

And  we  all  had  tears  in  our  eyes  to  see  the  poor 
old  fellow  wandering  right  and  left,  opening  the 
sacks,  watching  the  millstone,  while  the  wheat  was 
being  crushed  and  the  fine  powdery  flour  flew  up 
to  the  ceiling. 

To  do  ourselves  justice,  I  must  tell  you  that 
from  that  day  we  never  let  the  old  miller  lack  for 
work.  Then,  one  morning,  Maitre  Cornille  died, 
and  the  sails  of  our  1-ast  mill  ceased  to  turn  —  for- 
ever, this  time.  Cornille  dead,  no  one  took  his 
place.  But  what  of  that,  monsieur?  All  things 
come  to  an  end  in  this  world,  and  we  must  believe 
that  the  days  of  windmills  are  over,  like  those  of 
the  barges  on  the  Rhone,  the  parliaments,  and  the 
grand  flowered  jackets. 


18  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


IV. 

M.   SEGUIN'S  GOAT. 
TO  M.  PIERRE  GRINGOIRE,  LYRIC  POET  IN   PARIS, 

YOU  will  always  be  the  same,  my  poor  Grin- 
goire ! 

What !  a  place  is  offered  to  you  as  reporter  on 
one  of  the  best  Parisian  newspapers,  and  you  have 
the  coolness  to  refuse  it?  Look  at  yourself,  you 
luckless  fellow !  look  at  your  shabby  jacket,  those 
dilapidated  breeches,  and  that  thin  face  that  cries 
out  hunger.  It  is  to  this  that  your  passion  for 
noble  verse  has  brought  you  !  This  is  what  your 
loyal  ten  years'  service  as  page  to  Sire  Apollo  has 
won!     On  the  whole,  are  you  not  ashamed  of  it? 

Come,  make  yourself  a  reporter,  imbecile ;  make 
yourself  a  reporter.  You  will  earn  good  crown- 
pieces,  and  have  your  knife  and  fork  at  Brebant's, 
and  you  can  exhibit  yourself  on  all  first  nights  with 
a  new  feather  in  your  cap. 

No?  What,  you  won't?  You  insist  on  living 
free  and  as  you  please  to  the  end  of  the  chanter? 
Well,  then !  listen  to  the  history  of  M.  Serin's 
goat.  You  will  see  what  is  gained  by  wishing  to 
live  at  liberty. 

M.  Seguin  never  had  luck  with  his  goats.  He 
lost  them  in  all  kinds  of  ways.     One  fine  morning 


M.  Seguins  Goat.  19 

they  broke  their  tether  and  wandered  away  to  the 
mountain,  where  a  wolf  ate  them.  Neither  the 
caresses  of  their  master  nor  fear  of  the  wolf,  noth- 
ing could  restrain  them.  They  were,  it  appeared, 
independent  goats,  wanting  at  any  cost  free  air 
and  liberty. 

The  worthy  M.  Seguin,  who  did  not  understand 
the  nature  of  his  animals,  was '  shocked.  He 
said : 

"  That 's  enough ;  goats  are  bored  by  living  with 
me ;  I  won't  keep  another." 

However,  after  losing  six  in  that  way,  he  was 
not  discouraged,  and  he  bought  a  seventh ;  but 
this  time  he  was  careful  to  get  her  quite  young,  so 
young  that  she  might  the  better  get  accustomed  to 
live  with  him. 

Ah  !  Gringoire,  she  was  pretty,  that  little  goat 
of  M.  Seguin's,  so  pretty  with  her  soft  eyes,  her 
little  tuft  of  beard  like  a  sub-officer,  her  black  and 
shiny  hoofs,  her  ribbed  horns,  and  her  long,  white 
hair  which  wrapped  her  like  a  mantle  !  She  was 
almost  as  charming  as  that  kid  of  Esmeralda's  — 
you  remember,  Gringoire  ?  —  and  then,  so  docile, 
so  coaxing,  letting  herself  be  milked  without 
budging,  and  never  putting  her  foot  in  the  bowl ! 
A  love  of  a  little  goat ! 

Behind  M.  Seguin's  house  was  a  field  hedged 
round  with  hawthorn.  It  was  there  that  he  put 
his  new  boarder.  He  fastened  her  to  a  stake,  at 
the  very  best  part  of  the  meadow,  taking  care  to 
give  her  plenty  of  rope ;  and  from  time  to  time  he 
went  to  see  if  she  was  satisfied.     The  goat  seemed 


20  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

very  happy,  and  cropped  the  grass  with  such  heart- 
iness that  M.  Seguin  was  delighted. 

"  At  last,"  thought  the  poor  man,  "  here  's  one 
at  least  that  is  n't  bored  by  living  with  me  !  " 

M.  Seguin  deceived  himself;  the  goat  was  bored. 

One  day  she  said  to  herself,  looking  at  the 
mountain :  — 

"  How  nice  it  must  be  up  there !  What  a 
pleasure  to  skip  in  the  heather,  without  this  cursed 
rope,  which  rubs  my  neck  !  It  is  all  very  well  for 
asses  and  cattle  to  browse  in  a  field,  but  goats ! 
why,  they  want  the  open." 

From  that  moment  the  grass  of  the  meadow 
seemed  to  her  insipid.  Ennui  seized  her.  She 
grew  thin,  her  milk  was  scanty.  It  was  really  pite- 
ous to  see  her,  straining  at  the  tether  all  day,  her 
head  turned  to  the  mountain,  her  nostril  flaming, 
and  she  saying  "  Ma-e  "  so  sadly. 

M.  Seguin  saw  that  something  was  the  matter 
with  his  goat,  but  he  did  not  know  what.  One 
morning,  after  he  had  milked  her,  the  goat  turned 
round  and  said  to  him  in  her  patois :  — 

"  Listen,  M.  Seguin ;  I  am  so  weary  here  with 
you ;  let  me  go  on  the  mountain." 

"  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  /  She,  too  !  "  cried  poor  M. 
Seguin,  stupefied,  and  he  let  fall  the  bowl ;  then, 
sitting  down  on  the  grass  at  the  side  of  his  goat 
he  said :  — 

"  Oh  !  Blanchette,  would  you  leave  me?" 

And  Blanchette  answered :  — 

"  Yes,  M.  Seguin." 


M.  Seguiris  Goat.  21 

*  Is  n't  there  grass  enough  here  to  please  you  ?  * 

"Oh!  plenty,  M.  Seguin." 

"Do  I  tie  you  too  short?  shall  I  lengthen  the 
rope  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  worth  while,  M.  Seguin." 

"Then  what  is  the  matter?  what  do  you  want?" 

"  I  want  to  go  on  the  mountain,  M.  Seguin." 

"  But,  you  unhappy  little  thing,  don't  you  know 
there  are  wolves  on  the  mountain?  What  would 
you  do  if  a  wolf  attacked  you  ?  " 

"  I  'd  butt  him  with  my  horns." 

"  A  wolf  would  n't  care  for  your  horns.  He 
has  eaten  up  goats  of  mine  with  much  bigger 
horns  than  yours.  Don't  you  remember  that 
poor  old  Renaude  who  was  here  last  year? 
Strong  and  spiteful  as  a  ram.  She  fought  all 
night  with  the  wolf,  but,  in  the  morning,  the  wolf 
ate  her." 

"  Pecaire!'  Poor  Renaude  !  But  that  does  not 
matter,  M.  Seguin;  let  me  go  to  the  mountain." 

"  Merciful  powers ! "  exclaimed  M.  Seguin, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  my  goats  ?  Another 
one  for  the  wolf  to  eat !  Well,  no,  I  shall  save 
you  in  spite  of  yourself,  you  slut !  and  for  fear  you 
should  break  your  rope  I  shall  put  you  in  the 
stable,  and  there  you  will  stay." 

Whereupon  M.  Seguin  led  the  goat  into  his 
brand-new  stable,  and  double-locked  the  door. 
Unfortunately,  he  forgot  the  window,  and  hardly 
had  he  turned  his  back  before  the  little  one  was 
out  and  away. 

You   laugh,   Gringoire  ?     Parbleu !     I   suppose 


22  Letters  from  My  MilL 

so ;  you  take  the  side  of  the  goats  against  that 
good  M.  Seguin.     We  '11  see  if  you  laugh  presently. 

When  the  white  goat  reached  the  mountain  there 
was  general  delight.  Never  had  the  old  fir-trees 
seen  anything  so  pretty.  They  received  her  like  a 
little  princess.  The  chestnut-trees  bent  to  the 
ground  to  kiss  her  with  the  tips  of  their  branches. 
The  golden  gorse  opened  wide  to  let  her  pass,  and 
smelt  just  as  sweet  as  it  could.  In  fact,  the  whole 
mountain  welcomed  her. 

You  can  imagine,  Gringoire,  how  happy  she 
was !  No  more  rope,  no  stake,  nothing  to  prevent 
her  from  skipping  and  browsing  as  she  pleased. 
My  dear  fellow,  the  grass  was  above  her  horns ! 
and  such  grass !  —  luscious,  delicate,  toothsome, 
made  of  all  sorts  of  plants. -J-Quite  another  thing 
from  that  grass  in  the  meadow.  And  the  flowers, 
oh !  Great  blue  campanulas  and  crimson  fox- 
gloves with  their  long  calyxes,  a  perfect  forest  of 
wild-flowers  giving  out  an  intoxicating  sweetness. 

The  white  goat,  a  little  tipsy,  wallowed  in  the 
thick  of  them  with  her  legs  in  the  air,  and  rolled 
down  the  banks  pell-mell  with  the  falling  leaves 
and  the  chestnuts.  Then,  suddenly,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  with  a  bound,  and  hop !  away  she 
went,  head  foremost,  through  thicket  and  bushes, 
now  on  a  rock,  now  in  a  gully,  up  there,  down 
there,  everywhere.  You  would  have  said  that 
ten  of  M.  Seguin's  goats  were  on  the  mountain. 

The  fact  is,  Blanchette  was  afraid  of  nothing. 

She  sprang  with  a  bound  over  torrents  that 
spattered  her  as  she  passed  with  a  dust  of  damp 


AT.  Seguins  Goat.  23 

spray.  Then,  all  dripping,  she  would  stretch  her- 
self out  on  a  nice  flat  rock  and  dry  in  the  sun. 
Once,  coming  to  the  edge  of  a  slope  with  a  bit 
of  laurel  between  her  teeth,  she  saw  below,  far 
below  on  the  plain,  the  house  of  M.  Seguin  with 
the  meadow  behind  it;  and  she  laughed  till  she 
cried. 

"  How  small  it  is  !  "  she  said  ;  "  how  could  I  ever 
have  lived  there?  " 

Poor  little  thing!  being  perched  so  high  she 
fancied  she  was  tall  as  the  world. 

Well !  it  was  a  good  day  for  M.  Seguin's  goat 
About  noon,  running  from  right  to  left,  she  fell  in 
with  a  herd  of  chamois  munching  a  wild  vine  with 
all  their  teeth.  Among  them  our  little  white- 
gowned  rover  made  quite  a  sensation.  They  gave 
her  the  choicest  place  at  the  vine,  and  all  those 
gentlemen  were  very  gallant.  In  fact,  it  appears 
—  but  this  is  between  ourselves,  Gringoire  —  that 
a  young  chamois  with  a  black  coat  had  the  great 
good  fortune  to  please  Blanchette.  The  pair 
wandered  off  in  the  woods  for  an  hour  or  so,  and 
if  you  want  to  know  what  they  said  to  each  other, 
go  ask  those  chattering  brooks  that  are  running 
invisible  through  the  mosses. 

Suddenly  the  wind  freshened.  The  mountain 
grew  violet ;  it  was  dusk. 

"  Already  !  "  said  the  little  goat ;  and  she  stopped, 
quite  surprised. 

Below,  the  fields  were  drowned  in  mist.  M. 
Seguin's    meadow    disappeared    in    the    fog,    and 


24  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

nothing  could  be  seen  of  the  house  but  the  roof 
and  a  trifle  of  smoke.  She  heard  the  little  bells  of 
a  flock  that  was  on  its  way  home,  and  her  soul 
grew  sad.  A  falcon,  making  for  his  nest,  swept 
her  with  his  wings  as  he  passed.  She  shud- 
dered.    Then  came  a  howl  on  the  mountain: 

"Hoo!  hoo!" 

She  thought  of  the  wolf;  all  day  that  silly  young 
thing  had  never  once  thought  of  it.  At  the  same 
moment  a  horn  sounded  far,  far  down  the  valley. 
It  was  that  good  M.  Seguin,  making  a  last  effort. 

"  Hoo  !  hoo  !  "  howled  the  wolf. 

*  Come  back  !  come  back  !  "  cried  the  horn. 

Blanchette  felt  a  wish  to  return,  but  remember- 
ing the  stake,  the  rope,  the  hedge  of  the  field,  she 
thought  that  she  never  could  endure  that  life  again 
and  'twas  better  to  remain  where  she  was. 

The  horn  ceased  to  sound. 

The  goat  heard  behind  her  the  rustling  of  leaves 
She  turned  and  saw  in  the  shadow  two  short  ears, 
erect,  and  two  eyes  shining.     It  was  the  wolf. 

Enormous,  motionless,  seated  on  his  tail,  he 
was  looking  at  the  little  white  goat  and  smack- 
ing his  lips  in  advance.  As  he  knew  very  well  he 
should  eat  her  up,  the  wolf  was  not  in  a  hurry; 
but  when  she  turned  round  and  saw  him  he  began 
to  laugh  wickedly :  "  Ha !  ha !  M.  Seguin's  little 
goat !  — "  and  he  licked  his  great  red  tongue 
round  his  wily  chops. 

►lanchette  felt  she  was  lost.     For  an  instant,  re- 
membering the    story  of  old    Renaude,  who   had 


1VL  Seguifis  Goat,  25 

fought  all  night  only  to  be  eaten  in  the  morning, 
she  said  to  herself  that  'twas  better,  perhaps,  to  be 
eaten  at  once;  but  then,  thinking  otherwise,  she 
put  herself  on  guard,  head  low,  horns  forward,  like 
the  brave  little  goat  that  she  was.  Not  that  she 
had  any  hope  of  killing  the  wolf,  —  goats  can't  kill 
wolves,  —  but  only  to  see  if  she,  too,  could  hold 
out  as  long  as  old  Renaude. 

Then  the  monster  advanced,  and  the  pretty  little 
horns  began  the  dance. 

Ah !  the  brave  goatling !  with  what  heart  she 
went  at  it!  More  than  ten  times  —  I'm  not  ex- 
aggerating, Gringoire  —  more  than  ten  times  she 
forced  the  wolf  back  to  get  breath.  During  each 
of  these  momentary  truces  the  dainty  little  thing 
nibbled  one  more  blade  of  her  dearly  loved  grass ; 
then,  with  her  mouth  full,  she  returned  to  the  com- 
bat. It  lasted  all  through  the  night.  From  time 
to  time  M.  Seguin's  goat  looked  up  at  the  stars  as 
they  danced  on  the  cloudless  sky  and  said  to  her- 
self: — 

"  Oh !  if  I  can  only  hold  out  till  dawn." 

One  after  another,  the  stars  went  out.  Blan- 
chette  redoubled  the  blows  of  her  horns,  and  the 
wolf  the  snap  of  his  teeth.  A  pale  gleam  showed 
on  the  horizon.  The  hoarse  crowing  of  a  cock 
rose  from  a  barnyard. 

"At  last!"  said  the  poor  little  goat,  who  had 
only  awaited  the  dawn  to  die ;  and  she  stretched 
herself  out  on  the  ground  in  her  pretty  white  fur 
all  spotted  with  gore. 

Then  the  wolf  fell  upon  her  and  ate  her  up. 


26  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Adieu,  Gringoire ! 

The  story  you  have  now  heard  is  not  a  tale  of 
my  own  invention.  If  ever  you  come  to  Provence, 
our  farmers  will  often  tell  you  of  la  cabro  de  Moussu 
Seguin,  que  se  batte'gue  touto  la  neui  emi  lou  loup,  e 
piei  lou  matin  lou  loup  la  mange'. 

You  understand  me,  Gringoire :  "  And  then,  in 
the  morning,  the  wolf  ate  her  up." 


The  Stars,  27 


THE   STARS. 

TALE  OF  A  PROVENCAL    SHEPHERD. 

In  the  days  when  I  kept  sheep  on  the  LubeVon, 
I  was  often  for  weeks  together  without  seeing  a  liv- 
ing soul,  alone  in  the  pastures  with  my  dog  Labri 
and  the  flock.  From  time  to  time  the  hermit  of 
the  Mont-de-1'Ure  passed  that  way  in  search  of 
simples ;  or  occasionally  I  saw  the  blackened  face 
of  some  Piedmontese  charcoal-burner;  but  these 
were  quiet  folk,  silent  by  force  of  solitude,  having 
lost  their  liking  for  talk,  and  knowing  nothing  of 
what  went  on  below  in  the  towns  and  villages.  So 
when  I  heard,  every  fortnight,  on  the  road  coming 
up  the  mountain,  the  bells  of  our  farm  mule  bring- 
ing me  food  for  the  next  two  weeks,  and  when  I 
saw,  appearing  little  by  little  above  the  slope,  the 
lively  head  of  our  miarro  (farm-boy)  or  the  red 
coif  of  old  Aunt  Norade,  I  was  really  very  happy. 
I  made  them  tell  me  all  the  news  of  the  world  down 
below,  the  baptisms,  the  marriages,  etc. ;  but  that 
which  interested  me  above  all  was  to  know  what 
the  daughter  of  my  master  was  about,  our  Demoi- 
selle Stephanette,  the  prettiest  young  lady  in  all 
the  country  round.  Without  seeming  to  take  great 
interest,  I  managed  to  find  out  when  she  went  to 


28  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

fetes  and  dances,  and  whether  she  had  new  lovers ; 
and  if  others  asked  me  what  such  things  mattered 
to  me,  a  poor  shepherd  on  a  mountain,  I  answered 
that  I  was  twenty  years  old,  and  that  Mademoiselle 
Stephanette  was  the  loveliest  thing  I  had  ever  seen 
in  my  life. 

Now  one  Sunday,  when  I  was  expecting  my  two 
weeks'  provisions,  it  happened  that  they  did  not 
come  until  very  late.  In  the  morning  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Tis  the  fault  of  high  mass;  "  then,  about 
mid-day,  there  came  up  a  great  storm,  and  I  thought 
that  the  mule  could  not  start  on  account  of  the 
roads.  At  last,  about  three  o'clock,  when  the  sky 
was  washed  clear  and  the  mountain  was  shining 
with  sun  and  water,  I  heard  amid  the  dripping 
from  the  leaves  and  the  gurgle  of  the  overflowing 
brooks,  the  tinkle  of  the  mule-bells,  as  gay  and 
alert  as  the  grand  church  chimes  of  an  Easter-day. 
But  it  was  not  our  little  miarro,  nor  old  Aunt 
Norade  who  was  leading  him.  It  was  —  guess 
who  ?  Our  demoiselle,  my  children  !  our  demoiselle 
in  person,  sitting  up  straight  between  the  osier 
baskets,  quite  rosy  with  the  mountain  air  and  the 
refreshing  coolness  of  the  storm. 

The  boy  was  ill;  Aunt  Norade  was  off  for  a 
holiday  with  the  children.  The  beautiful  Stepha- 
nette told  me  all  this  as  she  got  off  the  mule,  and 
also  that  she  came  late  because  she  had  lost  her 
way ;  but  to  see  her  dressed  in  her  Sunday  best, 
with  her  flowered  ribbon,  her  brilliant  petticoat, 
and  her  laces,  I  must  say  she  had  more  the  look 
of  having  lingered  at  some  dance  than  of  search- 


The  Stars.  29 

ing  for  a  path  among  the  bushes.  Oh,  tne  dainty 
creature !  My  eyes  never  wearied  of  looking  at 
her.  It  is  true  that  I  had  never  before  seen  her 
quite  so  near.  Sometimes,  in  winter,  when  the 
flocks  had  come  down  upon  the  plains  and  I 
returned  to  the  farmhouse  at  night  for  my  supper, 
she  would  cross  the  hall  quickly,  scarcely  speak- 
ing to  the  servants,  always  gayly  dressed  and 
perhaps  a  little  haughty.  And  now  I  had  her 
before  me,  all  to  myself!  Was  it  not  enough  to 
turn  my  head? 

When  she  had  taken  the  provisions  from  the 
basket  Stephanette  looked  about  her  with  curi- 
osity. Lifting  her  handsome  best  petticoat  slightly, 
for  it  might  have  got  injured,  she  entered  the 
cabin,  asked  to  see  where  I  slept,  —  in  a  trough 
full  of  straw  with  a  sheepskin  over  it,  —  looked  at 
my  big  cloak  hanging  to  the  wall,  my  crook,  and 
my  gun.  All  of  which  amused  her.  "  So  this  is 
where  you  live,  my  poor  shepherd?"  she  said. 
"  How  bored  you  must  be  all  alone.  What  do 
you  do?  What  do  you  think  about?"  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  answer,  "  Of  you,  my  mistress,"  and 
I  should  n't  have  lied ;  but  my  trouble  of  mind 
was  so  great  that  I  could  n't  so  much  as  find  a 
word.  I  think  she  noticed  this  and  the  mischiev- 
ous creature  took  pleasure  in  doubling  my  embar- 
rassment by  her  teasing.  "  And  your  sweetheart, 
shepherd ;  she  comes  to  see  you  sometimes,  does 
she  not?  I  am  sure  she  must  be  the  golden  kid,  or 
that  fairy  Estrella  who  flits  along  the  summits  of 
the  mountains."     And  she  herself  as  she  spoke  to 


30  Letters  from  My  Mill 

me  had  quite  the  air  of  the  fairy  Estrella,  with 
that  pretty  laugh  from  her  head  tossed  back,  and 
her  haste  to  be  off,  which  made  her  visit  seem 
much  like  a  vision.     "  Adieu,  shepherd." 

"  Your  servant,  mistress."  And  away  she  went, 
with  the  empty  baskets. 

When  she  passed  out  of  sight  down  the  sloping 
path  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  stones  rolled  away 
by  the  hoofs  of  the  mule  were  falling,  one  by  one, 
on  my  heart.  I  heard  them  a  long,  long  time; 
and  till  late  in  the  day  I  sat  as  if  dozing,  not 
daring  to  stir  for  fear  lest  my  vision  should  leave 
me. 

Towards  evening,  as  the  depths  of  the  valleys 
were  beginning  to  grow  blue,  and  the  creatures 
were  pressing  together  and  bleating  to  enter  the 
fold,  I  heard  myself  called  from  below,  and  I  saw 
our  young  lady,  no  longer  laughing  as  before,  but 
trembling  with  fear  and  cold  and  dampness.  It 
seems  she  had  found  at  the  base  of  the  slope  the 
river  Sorgue  so  swollen  by  the  storm  that,  being 
determined  to  cross  it,  she  came  near  getting 
drowned.  The  terrible  part  was  that  at  that  hour 
of  the  night  there  was  no  use  attempting  to  return 
to  the  farm,  because  she  never  could  have  found 
her  way  by  the  cross  road  all  by  herself,  and,  as 
for  me,  I  could  not  leave  my  flock.  The  idea  of 
passing  the  night  on  the  mountain  worried  her 
greatly,  especially  on  account  of  her  people's 
anxiety.  I  soothed  her  as  best  I  could.  "The 
nights  are  so  short  in  July,  mistress  —  it  is  only  a 
moment's   trouble,"     And    I    lighted    a   big    fire 


The  Stars,  31 

quickly  to  dry  her  little  feet  and  her  gown  all 
soaked  in  the  river.  After  which  I  brought  her 
some  milk  and  cheese;  but  the  poor  little  thing 
thought  neither  of  warmth  nor  of  food ;  and  when 
I  saw  the  big  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes  I 
wanted  to  cry  myself. 

And  now  the  darkness  was  really  coming. 
Nothing  remained  on  the  crest  of  the  mountain 
but  a  dust  of  the  sun,  a  vapour  of  light  to  the 
westward.  I  asked  our  young  lady  to  enter  and 
rest  in  the  cabin ;  and  then,  having  stretched  a 
fine  new  sheepskin  on  a  pile  of  fresh  straw,  I 
wished  her  good-night  and  went  out  to  sit  by  my- 
self before  the  door.  God  is  my  witness  that,  in 
spite  of  the  fire  of  love  that  burned  my  blood,  no 
evil  thought  came  into  my  mind,  —  nothing  but  a 
great  pride  to  think  that  in  a  corner  of  my  hut, 
quite  close  to  the  flock  that  eyed  her  inquisitively, 
the  daughter  of  my  master,  a  lamb  more  precious 
and  snow-white  than  they,  was  sleeping,  intrusted 
to  my  care.  Never  did  the  heavens  seem  to  me 
so  deep,  the  stars  so  bright. 

Suddenly  the  wicket  opened  and  Stephanette 
appeared.  She  could  not  sleep.  The  creatures 
had  crackled  the  straw  as  they  moved,  or  else 
they  were  bleating  as  they  dreamed.  She  pre- 
ferred to  come  out  to  the  fire.  Seeing  this  I 
threw  my  goatskin  round  her  shoulders  and  blew 
up  a  flame,  and  there  we  stayed,  sitting  side  by 
side,  without  saying  a  word.  If  you  have  ever 
passed  a  night  beneath  the  stars  you  know  that 
during  the  hours  when  people  sleep  a  mysterious 


32  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

world  wakes  up  in  the  solitude  and  silence.  The 
springs  sing  clearer,  the  ponds  are  lighted  by- 
little  flames.  All  the  spirits  of  the  mountain  go 
and  come  freely ;  there 's  rustling  in  the  air,  im- 
perceptible noises  as  if  we  could  hear  the  branches 
grow  and  the  grass  springing.  Day  is  the  life  of 
beings,  but  night  is  the  life  of  things.  If  you  are 
not  accustomed  to  it  't  is  alarming ;  and  so  our 
young  lady  shuddered  and  pressed  against  me  at 
the  slightest  noise.  Once  a  long,  melancholy  cry 
came  from  the  pond  that  shone  below  us,  rising 
in  undulations.  At  the  same  instant  a  beautiful 
shooting  star  glided  above  our  heads  in  the  same 
direction,  as  if  that  plaint  which  we  had  just 
heard  had  brought  light  with  it. 

"  What  is  that?  "  asked  Stephanette  in  a  whisper. 

"  A  soul  that  enters  paradise,  my  mistress,"  and  I 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  She  too  crossed  her- 
self, and  sat  for  a  moment  with  her  head  turned 
upward  to  the  sky,  reflecting.  Then  she  said  to 
me :  "  Is  it  true,  shepherd,  that  all  of  you  are 
wizards?" 

"  Not  so,  mistress.  But  here  we  live  closer  to 
the  stars,  and  we  know  what  goes  on  among  them 
better  than  the  people  of  the  plains." 

She  still  looked  upward,  resting  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  wrapped  in  the  goatskin,  like  a  little 
celestial  shepherd.  "  How  many  there  are !  how 
beautiful !  Never  did  I  see  so  many.  Do  you 
know  their  names,  shepherd  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  mistress...  See!  just  above  us, 
that's  the  Path  of  Saint  James  fthe  Milky  Way). 


The  Stars.  $?> 

It  goes  from  France  to  Spain.  T  was  Saint  James 
of  Galicia  who  marked  it  out  to  show  the  way  to 
our  brave  Charlemagne  when  he  made  war  upon  the 
Saracens.1  Farther  on,  there's  the  Chariot  of  Souls 
(Great  Bear),  with  its  four  resplendent  axles.  The 
three  stars  before  it  are  its  three  steeds,  and  the 
little  one  close  to  the  third  is  the  charioteer.  Do 
you  see  that  rain  of  stars  falling  over  there?  Those 
are  the  souls  that  the  Good  God  won't  have  in 
heaven.  .  .  Lower  down  there  's  the  Rake  or  the 
Three  Kings  (Orion).  That  serves  us  for  a  clock, 
us  shepherds.  Merely  by  looking  at  them  now  I 
know  't  is  past  midnight.  Still  lower,  over  there 
to  the  southward,  shines  John  of  Milan,  the  torch 
of  the  stars  (Sirius).  Here 's  what  the  shepherds 
say  about  that  star:  It  seems  that  one  night  John 
of  Milan  with  the  Three  Kings  and  the  Pouciniere 
(the  Pleiad)  were  invited  to  the  wedding  of  a 
star,  a  friend  of  theirs.  The  Pouciniere,  being  in  a 
hurry,  started,  they  say,  the  first  and  took  the 
upper  road.  Look  at  her,  up  there,  in  the  depths 
of  the  sky.  The  Three  Kings  cut  across  and 
caught  up  with  her,  but  that  lazy  John  of  Milan, 
who  slept  too  late,  stayed  quite  behind,  and  being 
furious,  tried  to  stop  them  by  flinging  his  stick. 
That 's  why  the  Three  Kings  are  sometimes  called 
the  Stick  of  John  of  Milan.  .  .  But  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  stars,  mistress,  is  ours,  the 
Shepherd's  Star,  which  lights  us  at  dawn  of  day 
when  we  lead  out  the  flock,  and  at  night  when  we 

1  All  these  details  of  popular  astronomy  are  translated  from  the 
■  Provencal  Almanach,"  published  at  Avignon. 

3 


34  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

gather  it  in.  We  call  that  star  the  Magtielonne, 
the  beautiful  Maguelonne  which  runs  after  Pierre 
de  Provence  (Saturn),  and  marries  him  every  seven 
years." 

"  Why,  shepherd  !  do  stars  really  marry?" 

"  To  be  sure  they  do,  mistress." 

And  as  I  tried  to  explain  to  her  what  such  mar- 
riages were  I  felt  something  fresh  and  delicate  lie 
softly  on  my  shoulder.  T  was  her  head,  weighed 
down  by  sleep,  which  rested  upon  me  with  a  dainty 
rustle  of  ribbons  and  laces  and  waving  hair.  She 
stayed  thus,  never  moving,  till  the  stars  in  the  sky 
grew  pale,  dimmed  by  the  rising  day.  As  for  me, 
I  looked  at  her  sleeping,  a  little  shaken  in  the 
depths  of  my  being,  but  sacredly  protected  by  that 
clear  night,  which  has  never  given  me  any  but 
noble  thoughts.  Around  us  the  stars  continued 
their  silent  way,  docile  as  a  flock,  and  at  times  I 
fancied  that  one  of  them,  the  most  delicate,  the 
most  brilliant,  had  lost  its  way  and  had  come 
down  to  rest  upon  my  shoulder  and  sleep. 


The  Artesian  Girl  35 


THE   ARLESIAN    GIRL. 

Going  down  from  my  mill  to  the  village  I  pass 
a  farmhouse  built  close  to  the  road  at  the  end  of  a 
great  courtyard  planted  with  hazel-trees.  It  is  the 
true  home  of  a  Provencal  farmer,  with  its  red  tiles, 
its  broad  brown  front  and  irregular  windows,  and 
above,  at  the  peak  of  the  garret,  a  weather-vane, 
pulleys  to  hoist  the  forage,  and  a  few  tufts  of  hay 
caught  in  the  transit. 

Why  did  that  house  so  affect  me?  Why  did 
that  closed  portal  seem  to  wring  my  heart?  I 
could  not  have  told  why,  and  yet  that  home  always 
gave  me  a  chill.  There  was  silence  around  it. 
When  any  one  passed,  the  dogs  did  not  bark,  the 
guinea-fowls  fled  without  screaming.  Within,  not 
a  voice!  Nothing,  not  so  much  as  a  mule-bell. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  white  curtains  at  the  windows 
and  the  smoke  that  rose  from  the  roof,  the  place 
might  have  seemed  uninhabited. 

Yesterday,  on  the  stroke  of  midday,  I  was  return- 
ing from  the  village  and,  to  escape  the  sun,  I  was 
hugging  the  walls  of  the  farm  in  the  shade  of  the 
hazel-trees.  On  the  road,  directly  in  front  of 
the  courtyard,  silent  serving-men  were  loading  a 
waggon  with  hay.     The  gates  were  open.     I  cast 


36  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

in  a  look  as  I  passed,  and  I  saw,  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  courtyard,  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his 
elbows  on  a  large  stone  table,  a  tall  old  man, 
white-headed,  in  a  jacket  too  short  for  him,  and 
ragged  breeches.  I  stopped.  One  of  the  men 
said  to  me  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  Hush  !  't  is  the  master.  He  is  like  that  since 
the  misfortune  of  his  son." 

At  this  moment  a  woman  and  a  little  boy  dressed 
in  black,  passed  near  to  us  carrying  large  gilt 
prayer-books,  and  entered  the  farmhouse. 

The  man  added  :  — 

"That's  the  mistress  and  Cadet,  returning  from 
mass.  They  go  there  every  day  since  the  lad 
killed  himself.  Ah  !  monsieur,  what  desolation  ! 
The  master  still  wears  the  dead  boy's  clothes; 
they  can't  make  him  quit  them.  Dia !  hue ! 
Gee  up!" 

The  waggon  started.  I,  vvhc  wanted  to  know 
more,  asked  the  driver  to  let  me  get  up  beside 
him ;  and  it  was  there,  seated  on  the  hay,  that  I 
heard  this  heart-breaking  story. 

He  was  called  Jan.  A  fine  young  peasant,  twenty 
years  of  age,  virtuous  as  a  girl,  firm,  with  a  frank 
face,  and  very  handsome ;  so  the  women  looked  at 
him ;  but  as  for  him  he  had  only  one  woman  in  his 
head,  —  a  little  Arlesian  girl,  all  velvet  and  laces, 
whom  he  met  one  day  at  Aries,  on  the  Lice.  At 
the  farmhouse  this  acquaintance  was  not  viewed, 
at  first,  with  satisfaction.  The  girl  was  thought 
coquettish,  and  her  parents  were  not  of  the  neigh 


The  Artesian  Girl.  3 J 

bourhood.  But  Jan  wanted  his  Arlesian  love  with 
all  his  might.     He  said :  — 

"  I  shall  die  if  they  don't  give  her  to  me." 

They  had  to  come  to  it.  It  was  settled  that  the 
marriage  should  take  place  after  harvest. 

One  Sunday  evening,  in  the  large  courtyard,  the 
family  were  finishing  dinner.  It  was  almost  a  wed- 
ding-feast. The  bride  was  not  present,  but  toasts 
had  been  drunk  in  her  honour.  Suddenly  a  man 
appeared  at  the  gate  and  asked,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
to  speak  to  Maitre  Esteve  in  private.  Esteve  rose 
and  went  out  upon  the  highway. 

"  Master,"  said  the  man,  "  you  are  marrying  your 
son  to  a  slut  who  has  been  my  mistress  for  the  last 
two  years.  What  I  say  I  prove ;  here  are  letters. 
Her  parents  knew  all,  and  promised  her  to  me,  but 
since  your  son  has  courted  her  neither  she  nor  her 
parents  will  have  me.  But  I  think,  after  that,  she 
ought  not  to  be  the  wife  of  another." 

"Very  well,"  said  Maitre  Esteve,  after  he  had 
read  the  letters.  "  Come  in,  and  drink  a  glass  of 
muscat." 

The  man  replied :  — 

"  Thank  you  !  no ;  I  am  more  sorrowful  than 
thirsty."     And  he  went  away. 

The  father  returned,  impassible.  He  resumed 
his  place  at  the  table,  and  the  meal  ended  gayly. 

That  evening  Maitre  Esteve  and  his  son  went 
to  walk  in  the  fields.  They  were  out  a  long  time ; 
when  they  returned  the  mother  awaited  them. 

"  Wife,"  said  the  farmer,  leading  his  son  to  her, 
"  Kiss  him ;  he  is  very  unhappy." 


38  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Jan  never  spoke  again  of  his  Arlesian  girl.  But 
he  still  loved  her,  and  more  than  ever  after  she 
was  shown  to  him  in  the  arms  of  another.  Only, 
he  was  too  proud  to  speak  of  it ;  and  it  was  that 
which  killed  him,  poor  lad  !  Sometimes  he  would 
spend  whole  days  in  a  corner  without  moving. 
At  other  times  he  would  dig  with  fury  and  do  him- 
self, alone,  the  work  of  ten  labourers.  But  as  soon 
as  evening  came  he  took  the  road  to  Aries ;  walk- 
ing straight  before  him  till  he  saw  the  slender 
spires  of  the  town  rise  in  the  sunset  glow.  Then 
he  returned.     Never  did  he  go  any  farther. 

Seeing  him  thus,  always  sad  and  solitary,  the 
people  of  the  farmhouse  knew  not  what  to  do. 
They  feared  some  danger.  Once,  at  table,  his 
mother,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  tears, 
said :  — 

"  Listen,  Jan,  if  you  wish  for  her  all  the  same, 
we  will  give  her  to  you." 

The  father,  red  with  shame,  lowered  his  head. 

Jan  made  sign  of  refusal  and  went  away. 

From  that  day  forth  he  changed  his  way  of  liv- 
ing, affecting  to  be  gay  in  order  to  reassure  his 
parents.  He  was  seen  once  more  at  balls,  in  the 
wine-shops,  at  the  races.  At  the  election  in 
Fonvieille  it  was  he  who  led  the  farandole. 

The  father  said :  "  He  is  cured."  The  mother 
still  had  fears  and  watched  her  child  more  than 
ever.  Jan  slept  with  Cadet  close  to  the  silk-worm 
attic ;  the  poor  old  woman  had  her  bed  made  up 
beside  their  chamber,  —  the  silk-worms  might  need 
her,  she  said. 


The  Arlesian  Girl.  39 

And  now  came  the  fete  of  Saint-Eloi,  the  patron 
of  farmers. 

Great  joy  at  the  farmhouse.  There  was  chdteau- 
neuf  for  every  one,  and  boiled  wine  seemed  to  rain. 
Then,  fire-crackers  and  fire-barrels,  and  coloured 
lanterns  in  the  hazel  trees.  Vive  Saint-Eloi ! 
They  farandoled  to  death.  Cadet  burned  his  new 
blouse.  Jan  himself  seemed  happy ;  he  insisted 
on  making  his  mother  dance,  and  the  poor  woman 
wept  with  joy. 

By  midnight  they  all  went  to  bed.  They 
needed  sleep.  Jan  did  not  sleep,  and  Cadet  said 
the  next  day  he  had  sobbed  all  night.  Ah  !  I  teU 
you  he  was  deeply  bitten,  that  lad. 

The  next  day,  at  dawn,  the  mother  heard  some  one 
cross  her  room  running.    She  had  a  presentiment. 

"  Jan,  is  that  you  ?  " 

Jan  did  not  answer ;  he  was  already  on  the  stair- 
way. 

Quick,  quick  the  mother  rose. 

"  Jan,  where  are  you  going?  " 

He  ran  to  the  hayloft ;  she  followed  him. 

"  My  son,  for  God's  sake !  " 

He  closed  the  door  and  bolted  it. 

"  Jan,  my  little  Jan !  answer !  What  are  you 
doing?" 

Her  old  hands,  trembling,  felt  for  the  latch. 
A  window  opened,  the  sound  of  a  fall  was  heard 
on  the  stones  of  the  courtyard,  and  that  was  all. 

He  had  said  to  himself,  poor  lad :  "  I  love  her 
too  much  —  I  must  go." 


40  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Ah !  miserable  hearts  that  we  have  !  And  yet, 
it  is  hard  that  contempt  is  unable  to  kill  love. 

That  morning  the  people  in  the  village  wondered 
who  it  was  that  cried  out  so  terribly  down  there, 
toward  the  Esteve  farm. 

In  the  courtyard,  before  the  stone  table,  all 
covered  with  dew  and  blood,  the  mother,  naked, 
<*at  lamenting  with  her  dead  boy  in  her  arms. 


The  Popes  Mule.  41 


THE   POPE'S   MULE. 

Of  all  the  pretty  sayings,  proverbs,  adages,  with 
which  our  Provencal  peasantry  decorate  their  dis- 
cou-  Z[  I  know  of  none  more  picturesque,  or 
more  peculiar  than  this :  —  for  fifteen  leagues 
around  my  mill,  when  they  speak  of  a  spiteful  and 
vindictive  man,  they  say  :  "  That  fellow  !  distrust 
him  !  he  's  like  the  Pope's  mule  who  kept  her  kick 
for  seven  years." 

I  tried  for  a  long  time  to  find  out  whence  that 
proverb  came,  what  that  Pope's  mule  was,  and  why 
she  kept  her  kick  for  seven  years.  No  one  could 
give  me  any  information  on  the  subject,  not  even 
Francet  Mamaf,  my  old  fife-player,  though  he 
knows  his  Provencal  legends  to  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  Francet  thought,  as  I  did,  that  there 
must  be  some  ancient  chronicle  of  Avignon  behind 
it,  but  he  had  never  heard  of  it  otherwise  than  as 
a  proverb. 

"  You  won't  find  it  anywhere  except  in  the 
Grasshoppers'  Library,"  said  the  old  man,  laughing. 

The  idea  struck  me  as  a  good  one ;  and  as  the 
Grasshoppers'  Library  is  close  at  my  door,  I  shut 
myself  up  there  for  'over  a  week. 

It  is  a  wonderful  library,  admirably  stocked, 
open  to  poets  night  and  day,  and  served  by  little 


42  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

librarians  with  cymbals  who  make  music  for  you 
all  the  time.  I  spent  some  delightful  days  there, 
and  after  a  week  of  researches  (on  my  back)  I 
ended  by  discovering  what  I  wanted,  namely: 
the  story  of  the  mule  and  that  famous  kick  which 
she  kept  for  seven  years.  The  tale  is  pretty, 
though  rather  naive,  and  T  shall  try  to  tell  it  to 
you  just  as  I  read  it  yesterday  in  a  manuscript 
coloured  by  the  weather,  smelling  of  good  dried 
lavender  and  tied  with  the  Virgin's  threat-— as 
they  call  gossamer  in  these  parts. 

-—Whoso  did  not  see  Avignon  in  the  days  of  the 
Popes  has  seen  nothing.  For  gayety,  life,  anima- 
tion, the  excitement  of  festivals,  never  was  a  town 
like  it.  From  morning  till  night  there  was  nothing 
but  processions,  pilgrimages,  streets  strewn  with 
flowers,  draped  with  tapestries,  cardinals  arriving 
by  the  Rhone,  banners  in  the  breeze,  galleys 
dressed  in  flags,  the  Pope's  soldiers  chanting  Latin 
on  the  squares,  and  the  tinkling  rattle  of  the  beg- 
ging friars ;  while  from  garret  to  cellar  of  houses 
that  pressed,  humming,  round  the  great  papal 
palace  like  bees  around  their  hive/  came  the  tick- 
tack  of  lace-looms,  the  to-and-fro  of  shuttles  weav- 
ing the  gold  thread  of  chasubles/the  tap-tap  of 
the  goldsmith's  chasing-tools  tapping  on  the  chal- 
ices, the  tuning  of  choir-instruments  at  the  lute- 
makers,/the  songs  of  the  spinners  at  their  work; 
and  above  all  this  rose  the '  sound  of  bells,  and 
always  the  echo  of  certain  tambourines  coming 
from  away  down  there  on  the  bridge   of  Avignon. 


The  Popes  Mule.  43 

Because,  with  us,  when  the  people  are  happy  they 
must  dance  —  they  must  dance ;  and  as  in  those 
days  the  streets  were  too  narrow  for  the  farandole> 
fifes  and  tambourines  posted  themselves  on  the 
bridge  of  Avignon  in  the  fresh  breeze  of  the 
Rhone,  and  day  and  night  folks  danced,  they 
danced.  Ah  !  the  happy  times  !  the  happy  town  ! 
Halberds  that  did  not  wound,  prisons  where  the 
wine  was  out  to  CGol;  no  hunger,  no  war.  That's 
nr!vv  the  Popes  of  the  Comtat  governed  their 
Pfcople;  and  that's  why  their  people  so  deeply 
re&retted  them. 

There  was  one  Pope  especially,  a  good  old  man 
called  Boniface.  Ah !  that  one,  many  were  the 
tears  shed  in  Avignon  when  he  was  dead.  He  was 
so  amiable,  so  affable  a  prince  !  He  laughed  so 
merrily  on  the  back  of  his  mule  !  And  when  you 
passed  him,  were  you  only  a  poor  little  gatherer  of 
madder-roots,  or  the  grand  provost  of  the  town,  he^ 
gave  you  his  benediction  so  politely  !  A  real  Pope 
of  Yvetot,  but  a  Yvetot  of  Provence,  with  some- 
thing delicate  in  his  laugh,  a  sprig  of  sweet  marjoram 
in  his  cardinal's  cap,  and  never  a  Jeanneton,  —  the 
only  Jeanneton  he  was  ever  known  to  have,  that 
good  Father,  was  his  vineyard,  his  own  little  vine- 
yard which  he  planted  himself,  three  leagues  from 
Avignon,  among  the  myrtles  of  Chateau-Neuf. 

Every  Sunday,  after  vespers,  the  good  man  paid 
court  to  his  vineyard ;  and  when  he  was  up  there, 
sitting  in  the  blessed  sun,  his  mule  near  him,  his 
cardinals    stretched    out  beneath    the    grapevines, 


44  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

he     would   order    a    flask    of    the    wine    of    his 
own  growth  to  be  opened,— that  beautiful  wine, 
the    colour    of    rubies,    which    is   now   called    the 
Chateau-Ncuf  des   Papcs,  and    he   sipped   it   with 
sips,  gazing  at  his  vineyard  tenderly.     Then,  the 
flask  empty,  the  day  fading,  he  rode  back  joyously 
to   town,    the    Chapter    following;     and   when    he 
crossed     the  .  bridge     of    Avignon    through    the 
tambourines    and    the    jdranaoLtl;    xvkIo™^    '   #se 
going  by  the   music,  paced    along  in  a  skippin£ 
little  amble,  while    he   himself  beat   time  to  r 
dance   with     his    cap,    which    greatly   scandalize 
the    cardinals    but   made  the   people  say :    "  J^t1 ' 
the  good   prince  !     Ah  !  the  kind  Pope  !  " 

What  the  Pope  loved  best  in  the  world,  next  to 
his  vineyard  of  Chateau-Neuf,  was  his  mule.  The 
good  man  doted  on  that  animal.  Every  evening 
before  he  went  to  bed  he  went  to  see  if  the  stable 
was  locked,  if  nothing  was  lacking  in  the  manger; 
and  never  did  he  rise  from  table  without  seeing 
with  his  own  eyes  the  preparation  of  a  great  bowl 
of  wine  in  the  French  fashion  with  sugar  and  spice, 
which  he  took  to  his  mule  himself,  in  spite  of  the 
remarks  of  his  cardinals.  It  must  be  said  that  the 
animal'  was  worth  the  trouble.  She  was  a  hand- 
some black  mule,  with  reddish  points,  sure-footed, 
hide  shining,  back  broad, and  full,  carrying  proudly 
her  thin  little  head  decked  out  with  pompons  and 
ribbons,  silver  bells  and  streamers ;  gentle  as  an 
angel  withal,  innocent  eyes,  and  two  long  ears, 
always  shaking,  which  gave  her  the  look  of  a  down- 


The  Popes  Mule,  45 

right  good  fellow.  All  Avignon  respected  her, 
and  when  she  passed  through  the  streets  there 
were  no  civilities  that  the  people  did  not  pay  her ; 
for  every  one  knew  there  was  no  better  way  to 
stand  well  at  court,  and  that  the  Pope's  mule, 
for  all  her  innocent  look,  had  led  more  than  one 
man  to  fortune,  —  witness  Tistet  V^dene  and  his 
amazing  adventure. 

This  Tistet  V6dene  was,  in  point  of  fact,  an  im- 
pudent young  rogue,  whom  his  father,  Guy  Vedene, 
the  goldsmith,  had  been  forced  to  turn  out  of  his 
house,  because  he  would  not  work  and  only  de- 
bauched the  apprentices.  For  six  months  Tistet 
dragged  his  jacket  through  all  the  gutters  of 
Avignon,  but  principally  those  near  the  papal 
palace ;  for  the  rascal  had  a  notion  in  his  head 
about  the  Pope's  mule,  and  you  shall  now  see 
what  mischief  was  in  it. 

One  day  when  his  Holiness  was  riding  all  alone 
beneath  the  ramparts,  behold  our  Tistet  approach- 
ing him  and  saying,  with  his  hands  clasped  in 
admiration :  — 

"  Ah  !  mon  Dieu,  Holy  Father,  what  a  fine  mule 
you  are  riding  X  Just  let  me  look  at  her.  Ah ! 
Pope,  what  a  mule  !  The  Emperor  of  Germany 
has  n't  her  equal." 

And  he  stroked  her  and  spoke  to  her  softly  as  if 
to  a  pretty  young  lady :  — 

"  Come  here,  my  treasure,  my  jewel,  my 
pearl  — " 

And  the  good  Pope,  quite  touched,  said  to 
himself:  — 


46  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

*  "  What  a  nice  young  fellow ;  how  kind  he  is  to 
my  mule !  " 

And  the  next  day  what  do  you  think  happened  ? 
Tistet  Vedene  changed  his  yellow  jacket  for  a 
handsome  lace  alb,  a  purple  silk  hood,  shoes  with 
buckles ;  and  he  entered  the  household  of  the  Pope, 
where  no  one  had  ever  yet  been  admitted  but  sons 
of  nobles  and  nephews  of  cardinals.  That 's  what 
intriguing  means!  But  Tistet  was  not  satisfied 
with  that. 

Once  in  the  Pope's  service,  the  rascal  continued 
the  game  he  had  played  so  successfully.  Insolent 
to  every  one,  he  showed  attentions  and  kindness 
to  none  but  the  mule,  and  he  was  always  to  be 
met  with  in  the  courtyards  of  the  palace  with  a 
handful  of  oats,  or  a  bunch  of  clover,  shaking  its 
pink  blooms  at  the  window  of  the  Holy  Father  as 
if  to  say:  "  Hein  !  who's  that  for,  hey?"  Time 
and  again  this  happened,  so  that,  at  last,  the  good 
Pope,  who  felt  himself  getting  old,  left  to  Tistet 
the  care  of  looking  after  the  stable  and  of  carrying 
to  the  mule  his  bowl  of  wine,  —  which  did  not 
cause  the  cardinals  to  laugh. 

Nor  the  mule  either.  For  now,  at  the  hour  her 
wine  was  due  she  beheld  half  a  dozen  little  pages 
of  the  household  slipping  hastily  into  the  hay  with 
their  hoods  and  their  laces ;  and  then,  soon  after, 
a  good  warm  smell  of  caramel  and  spices  pervaded 
the  stable,  and  Tistet  Vedene  appeared  bearing 
carefully  the  bowl  of  hot  wine.  Then  the  poor 
animal's  martyrdom  began. 


The  Popes  Mule,  47 

That  fragrant  wine  she  loved,  which  kept  hef 
warm  and  gave  her  wings,  they  had  the  cruelty  to 
bring  it  into  her  stall  and  let  her  smell  of  it ;  then, 
when  her  nostrils  were  full  of  the  perfume,  away ! 
and  the  beautiful  rosy  liquor  went  down  the  throats 
of  those  young  scamps  !  And  not  only  did  they 
steal  her  wine,  but  they  were  like  devils,  those 
young  fellows,  after  they  had  drunk  it.  One  pulled 
her  ears,  another  her  tail.  Quiquet  jumped  on  her 
back,  Beluguet  put  his  hat  on  her  head,  and  not 
one  of  the  rascals  ever  thought  that  with  one  good 
kick  of  her  hind-legs  the  worthy  animal  could  send 
them  all  to  the  polar  star,  and  farther  still  if  she 
chose.  But  no !  you  are  not  the  Pope's  mule  for 
nothing  —  that  mule  of  benedictions  and  plenary 
indulgences.  The  lads  might  do  what  they  liked, 
she  was  never  angry  with  them ;  it  was  only  Tistet 
V^dene  whom  she  hated.  He,  indeed  !  when  she 
felt  him  behind  her,  her  hoofs  itched ;  and  reason 
enough  too.  That  good-for-nothing  Tistet  played 
her  such  villanous  tricks.  He  had  such  cruel 
ideas  and  inventions  after  drinking.^ 

One  day  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  make  her 
go  with  him  into  the  belfry,  high  up,  very  high 
up,  to  the  peak  of  the  palace!  What  I  am  telling 
you  is  no  tale ;  two  hundred  thousand  Provencal 
men  and  women  saw  it.  Imagine  the  terror  of 
that  unfortunate  mule,  when,  after  turning  for  an 
hour,  blindly,  round  a  corkscrew  staircase  and 
climbing  I  don't  know  how  many  steps,  she  found 
herself  all  of  a  sudden  on  a  platform  blazing  with 
light,  while  a  thousand  feet  below  her  she  saw  a 


48  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

diminutive  Avignon,  the  booths  in  the  market  no 
bigger  than  nuts,  the  Pope's  soldiers  moving  about 
their  barrack  like  little  red  ants,  and  down  there, 
bright  as  a  silver  thread,  a  microscopic  little  bridge 
on  which  they  were  dancing,  dancing.  Ah  !  poor 
beast !  what  a  panic  !  At  the  cry  she  gave,  all  the 
windows  of  the  palace  shook. 

"What's  the  matter?  what  are  they  doing  to 
my  mule?"  cried  the  good  Pope,  rushing  out 
upon  his  balcony. 

Tistet  Vedene  was  already  in  the  courtyard  pre- 
tending to  weep  and  tear  his  hair. 

"  Ah  !  great  Holy  Father,  what 's  the  matter, 
indeed!  Mon  Dieu !  what  will  become  of  us? 
There 's  your  mule  gone  up  to  the  belfry." 

"All  alone?" 

"Yes,  great  Holy  Father,  all  alone.  Look  up 
there,  high  up.  Don't  you  see  the  tips  of  her  ears 
pointing  out  —  like  two  swallows  ?  " 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  the  poor  Pope,  raising  his  eyes. 
"  Why,  she  must  have  gone  mad  !  She  '11  kill  herself ! 
Come  down,  come  down,  you  luckless  thing !  " 

Pecaire!  she  wanted  nothing  so  much  as  to  come 
down;  but  how?  which  way?  The  stairs?  not  to 
be  thought  of;  they  can  be  mounted,  those  things ; 
but  as  for  going  down !  why,  they  are  enough  to 
break  one's  legs  a  hundred  times.  The  poor  mule 
was  in  despair,  and  while  circling  round  and  round 
the  platform  with  her  big  eyes  -furl I  of  vertigo  she 
thought  of  Tistet  Vedene. 

"Ah!  bandit,  if  I  only  escape  —  what  a  kick 
to-morrow  morning !  " 


The  Popes  Mule.  49 

That  idea  of  a  kick  put  some  courage  into  her 
heart ;  without  it  she  never  could  have  held  good. 
.  .  At  last,  they  managed  to  save  her ;  but  't  was 
quite  a  serious  affair.  They  had  to  get  her  down 
with  a  derrick,  ropes,  and  a  sling.  You  can  fancy 
what  humiliation  it  was  for  a  Pope's  mule  to  see 
herself  suspended  at  that  height,  her  four  hoofs 
swimming  in  the  void  like  a  cockchafer  hanging 
to  a  string.     And  all  Avignon  looking  at  her ! 

The  unfortunate  beast  could  not  sleep  at  night. 
She  fancied  she  was  still  turning  round  and  round 
that  cursed  platform  while  the  town  laughed  below, 
and  again  she  thought  of  the  infamous  Tistet  and 
the  fine  kick  of  her  heels  she  would  let  fly  at  him 
next  day.  Ah  !  friends,  what  a  kick  !  the  dust  of 
it  would  be  seen  as  far  as  Pamperigouste. 

Now,  while  this  notable  reception  was  being  made 
ready  for  him  in  the  Pope's  stable  what  do  you  think 
Tistet  Vedene  was  about?  He  was  descending 
the  Rhone  on  a  papal  galley,  singing  as  he  went 
his  way  to  the  Court  of  Naples  with  a  troop  of 
young  nobles  whom  the  town  of  Avignon  sent 
every  year  to  Queen  Jeanne  to  practise  diplomacy 
and  fine  manners.  Tistet  Vedene  was  not  noble; 
but  the  Pope  was  bent  on  rewarding  him  for  the 
care  he  had  given  to  his  mule,  and  especially  for 
the  activity  he  displayed  in  saving  her  from  her 
perilous  situation. 

The  mule  was  the  disappointed  party  on  the 
morrow ! 

"  Ah  !  the  bandit !  he  suspected  something,"  she 
thought,  shaking  her  silver  bells.  "No  matter  for 
4 


50  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

that,  scoundrel ;  you  '11  find  it  when  you  get  back, 
that  kick ;  I  '11  keep  it  for  you  !  " 

And  she  kept  it  for  him. 

After  Tistet's  departure  the  Pope's  mule  returned 
to  her  tranquil  way  of  life  and  her  usual  proceed- 
ings. No  more  Quiquet,  no  more  Beluguet  in 
the  stable.  The  good  old  days  of  the  spiced  wine 
came  back,  and  with  them  good-humour,  long 
siestas,  and  the  little  gavotte  step  as  she  crossed 
the  bridge  of  Avignon.  Nevertheless,  since  her  ad- 
venture a  certain  coldness  was  shown  to  her  in  the 
town.  Whisperings  were  heard  as  she  passed,  old 
people  shook  their  heads,  children  laughed  and 
pointed  to  the  belfry.  The  good  Pope  himself  no 
longer  had  quite  the  same  confidence  in  his  friend, 
and  when  he  let  himself  go  into  a  nice  little  nap 
on  her  back  of  a  Sunday,  returning  from  his  vine- 
yard, he  always  had  this  thought  latent  in  his 
mind:  "What  if  I  should  wake  up  there  on  the 
platform  !  "  The  mule  felt  this,  and  she  suffered, 
but  said  nothing;  only,  whenever  the  name  of 
Tistet  V6dene  was  uttered  in  her  hearing,  her 
long  ears  quivered,  and  she  struck  the  iron  of  her 
shoes  hard  upon  the  pavement  with  a  little  snort. 

Seven  years  went  by.  Then,  at  the  end  of 
those  seven  years,  Tistet  V6dene  returned  from 
the  Court  of  Naples.  His  time  was  not  yet  fin- 
ished over  there,  but  he  had  heard  that  the  Pope's 
head  mustard-bearer  had  died  suddenly  at  Avignon, 
and  as  the  place  seemed  a  good  one,  he  hurried 
back  in  haste  to  solicit  it. 

When  this  intriguing   Vedene  entered  the  pal- 


The  Popes  Mule,  51 

ace  the  Holy  Father   did  not   recognize  him,  he 
had  grown  so  tall  and  so  stout.     It  must  also  be 
said  that  the  good  Pope  himself  had  grown  older, 
and  could  not  see  much  without  spectacles. 
Tistet  was  not  abashed. 

"  What,  great  Holy  Father !  you  don't  remem- 
ber me?     It  is  I,  Tistet  Vedene." 
"  Vedene?" 

"  Why,  yes,  you  know  the  one  that  took  the 
wine  to  your  mule." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  yes,  —  I  remember.  A  good  little 
fellow,  that  Tistet  Vedene  !  And  now,  what  do 
you  want  of  me?  " 

"  Oh  !  very  little,  great  Holy  Father.  I  came  to 
ask —  By  the  bye,  have  you  still  got  her,  that 
nule  of  yours?  Is  she  well?  Ah!  good!  I 
came  to  ask  you  for  the  place  of  the  chief  mustard- 
bearer  who  lately  died." 

"  Mustard-bearer,  you !  Why  you  are  too 
young.     How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Twenty-two,  illustrious  pontiff;  just  five  years 
older  than  your  mule.  Ah  !  palm  of  God,  what  a 
fine  beast  she  is !  If  you  only  knew  how  I  love 
her,  that  mule,  —  how  I  pined  for  her  in  Italy! 
Won't  you  let  me  see  her?" 

"  Yes,  my  son,  you  shall  see  her,"  said  the 
worthy  Pope,  quite  touched.  "  And  as  you  love 
her  so  much  I  must  have  you  live  near  her. 
Therefore,  from  this  day  I  attach  you  to  my  per- 
son as  chief  mustard-bearer.  My  cardinals  will 
cry  out,  but  no  matter  !  I  'm  used  to  that.  Come 
and    see    me   to-morrow,  after   vespers,    and   you 


52  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

shall  receive  the  insignia  of  your  rank  in  presence 
of  the  whole  Chapter,  and  then  I  will  show  you 
the  mule  and  you  shall  go  to  the  vineyard  with  us, 
hey !  hey  !  " 

I  need  not  tell  you  if  Tistet  Wdene  was  con- 
tent when  he  left  the  palace,  and  with  what  impa- 
tience he  awaited  the  ceremony  of  the  morrow. 
And  yet  there  was  one  more  impatient  and  more 
content  than  he :  it  was  the  mule.  After  V^dene's 
return,  until  vespers  on  the  following  day  that  ter- 
rible animal  never  ceased  to  stuff  herself  with  oats, 
and  practise  her  heels  on  the  wall  behind  her. 
She,  too,  was  preparing  for  the  ceremony. 

Well,  on  the  morrow,  when  vespers  were  said, 
Tistet  Vedene  made  his  entry  into  the  papal  court- 
yard. All  the  grand  clergy  were  there;  the  cardi- 
nals in  their  red  robes,  the  devil's  advocate  in  black 
velvet,  the  convent  abbots  in  their  small  mitres, 
the  wardens  of  Saint-Agrico,  the  violet  hoods  of 
the  Pope's  household,  the  lower  clergy  also,  the 
Pope's  guard  in  full  uniform,  the  three  penitential 
brotherhoods,  the  hermits  of  Mont-Ventoux,  with 
their  sullen  faces,  and  the  little  clerk  who  walks 
behind  them  with  a  bell,  the  flagellating  friars 
naked  to  the  waist,  the  ruddy  sextons  in  judge's 
gowns,  all,  all,  down  to  the  givers  of  holy  water, 
and  the  man  who  lights  and  him  who  puts  out  the 
candles  —  not  one  was  missing.  Ah  !  'twas  a  fine 
ordination  !  Bells,  fire-crackers,  sunshine,  music, 
and  always  those  frantic  tambourines  leading  the 
farandole  over  there,  on  the  bridge. 

When    V6dene    appeared   in   the    midst  of  this 


The  Popes  Mule.  53 

great  assembly,  his  fine  bearing  and  handsome 
face  sent  a  murmur  of  admiration  through  the 
crowd.  He  was  truly  a  magnificent  Provencal ; 
but  of  the  blond  type,  with  thick  hair  curling  at 
the  tips,  and  a  dainty  little  beard,  that  looked  like 
slivers  of  fine  metal  fallen  from  the  chisel  of  his 
father,  the  goldsmith.  The  rumour  ran  that  the 
fingers  of  Queen  Jeanne  had  sometimes  played  in 
the  curls  of  that  golden  beard ;  and,  in  truth,  the 
Sieur  de  Vedene  had  the  self-glorifying  air  and  the 
abstracted  look  of  men  that  queens  have  loved. 
On  this  day,  in  order  to  do  honour  to  his  native 
town,  he  had  substituted  for  his  Neapolitan  clothes 
a  tunic  edged  with  pink,  a  la  Proven$ale,  and 
in  his  hood  there  quivered  a  tall  feather  of  the 
Camargue  ibis. 

As  soon  as  he  entered  the  new  official  bowed 
with  a  gallant  air,  and  approached  the  high  portico 
where  the  Pope  was  waiting  to  give  him  the  insig- 
nias  of  his  rank,  namely,  a  wooden  spoon  and  a 
saffron  coat.  The  mule  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  saddled  and  bridled,  all  ready  to  go  to  the 
vineyard ;  as  he  passed  beside  her,  Tistet  Vedene 
smiled  pleasantly,  and  stopped  to  give  her  a  friendly 
pat  or  two  on  the  back,  glancing,  as  he  did  so,  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  to  see  if  the  Pope  noticed 
it.  The  position  was  just  right,  —  the  mule  let  fly 
her  heels. 

"  There,  take  it,  villain !  Seven  years  have  I 
kept  it  for  thee !  " 

And  she  gave  him  so  terrible  a  kick,  —  so  ter- 
rible that  even  at  Pamperigouste  the  smoke  was 


54  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

seen,  a  whirlwind  of  blond  dust>  in  which  flew  the 
feather  of  an  ibis,  and  that  was  all  that  remained  of 
the  unfortunate  Tistet  Vedene  ! 

Mule  kicks  are  not  usually  so  destructive ;  but 
this  was  a  papal  mule ;  and  then,  just  think !  she 
had  kept  it  for  him  for  seven  years.  There  is  no 
finer  example  of  ecclesiastical  rancour. 


The  Lighthouse.  55 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep.  The  mistral  was 
angry,  and  the  roar  of  its  great  voice  kept  me 
awake  till  morning.  The  mill  cracked,  heavily 
swaying  its  mutilated  wings,  which  whistled  to  the 
north  wind  like  the  shrouds  of  a  ship.  Tiles  flew 
off  the  roof,  and,  afar,  the  serried  pines  with  which 
the  hill  is  covered  waved  and  rustled  in  the  shad- 
ows. I  might  have  thought  myself  on  the  open 
sea.  .  . 

All  this  reminded  me  of  my  beautiful  insomnias 
three  years  ago,  when  I  lived  in  the  phare  des  San- 
guinaires  [lighthouse  of  the  Sanguinaires],  down 
there,  off  the  Corsican  coast,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
gulf  of  Ajaccio,  —  one  more  pretty  corner  that  I 
have  found  in  which  to  dream  and  live  alone. 

Imagine  a  ruddy  isle,  savage  of  aspect;  the 
lighthouse  on  one  point,  on  the  other  an  old  Geno- 
ese tower,  where,  in  my  day,  lived  an  eagle. 
Below,  on  the  shore,  was  a  ruined  lazaretto,  over- 
grown with  herbage ;  and  everywhere  ravines, 
clusters  of  great  rocks,  a  few  wild  goats,  the  little 
Corsican  horses  galloping  about,  their  manes 
streaming  in  the  wind ;  and  above,  far  above,  in  a 
whirl  of  sea-birds,  the  house  of  the  beacon,  with  its 


56  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

platform  of  white  masonry  where  the  keepers 
walk  up  and  down,  its  green  arched  doorway,  and 
its  cast-iron  tower,  at  the  top  of  which  the  great 
lantern  with  facets  shines  in  the  sun,  giving  light 
by  day  as  well  as  by  night.  .  .  That  is  the  lie 
des  Sanguinaires,  as  I  saw  it  again  this  wakeful 
night,  while  I  listened  to  the  snoring  of  my  pines. 
It  was  in  that  enchanted  isle  that  I  shut  myself  up 
at  times,  before  I  came  to  my  mill,  when  I  needed 
the  free  air  and  solitude. 

What  did  I  do  there? 

Just  what  I  do  here,  only  less.  When  the  mistral 
or  the  tramontana  did  not  blow  too  hard,  I  lay  be- 
tween two  rocks  at  the  sea-level,  amid  the  gulls 
and  the  petrels  and  the  swallows,  and  there  I 
stayed  nearly  all  day  long  in  that  species  of  stupor 
and  delightful  dejection  which  comes  with  the  con- 
templation of  the  sea.  You  know,  don't  you, 
that  lovely  intoxication  of  the  soul?  We  do  not 
think,  we  do  not  dream.  All  our  being  escapes 
us,  flits  away,  is  scattered.  We  are  the  gull  that 
dives,  the  dust  of  foam  that  floats  in  the  sunlight 
between  two  waves,  the  vapour  of  that  steamer 
over  there  in  the  distance,  that  pretty  little  coral- 
boat  with  its  ruddy  sail,  that  pearl  of  the  water, 
that  flake  of  mist,  —  all,  we  are  all,  except  ourself. 
Oh !  what  precious  hours  of  semi-slumber  and 
self-dispersion  have  I  spent  upon  my  island ! 

/On  the  strong  windy  days  when  the  shore  was 
x.ot  tenable,  I  shut  myself  up  in  the  quarantine 
courtyard,  a  melancholy  little  courtyard,  fragrant 
with     rosemary    and    wild    absinthe ;   and    there, 


The  Lighthouse.  57 

crouching  in  a  projection  of  the  old  wall,  I  let 
myself  be  softly  invaded  by  the  vague  essence  of 
loneliness  and  sadness  which  floated  with  the  sun- 
shine into  those  stone  cells,  open  at  one  end  like 
ancient  tombs.  From  time  to  time  a  gate  would 
clap,  a  light  spring  bound  upon  the  grass ;  't  was 
a  goat  coming  in  to  browse  under  shelter  from  the 
wind.  When  she  saw  me  she  stopped  abashed, 
and  stood  still,  horns  erect,  air  alert,  looking  at 
me  with  an  infantine  eye. J 

Toward  five  o'clock  thfc  trumpet  of  the  keepers 
called  me  to  dinner.  Then  I  took  a  little  path 
through  the  tangle  of  rock  overhanging  the  sea, 
and  went  slowly  up  to  the  lighthouse,  turning  at 
every  step  to  that  vast  horizon  of  water  and  light 
which  seemed  to  enlarge  the  higher  I  went. 

Above,  it  was  charming.  I  still  see  that  beauti- 
ful dining-room  with  broad  tiles  and  oak  panels, 
the  bouillabaisse  smoking  in  the  middle  of  it,  the 
door  wide  open  to  the  white  terrace,  and  the  whole 
setting  sun  pouring  in.  The  keepers  were  there, 
waiting  until  I  came  to  sit  down  to  table.  There 
were  three  of  them,  a  Marseillais  and  two  Corsicans ; 
all  were  small  men,  bearded,  their  faces  tanned, 
fissured;  wearing  the  same  pe  lone —  short,  hooded 
cloak  of  goatskin  —  but  each  man  had  a  gait  and 
a  temperament  unlike  the  others. 

By  the  way  these  men  moved,  one  could  in- 
stantly feel  the  difference  between  the  two  races. 
The  Marseillais,  industrious  and  lively,  always 
busy,  always  in  motion,  roved  the  isle  from  morn- 


58  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

ing  till  night,  gardening,  fishing,  gathering  the 
gulls'  eggs,  hiding  in  the  rocks  to  catch  a  goat  and 
milk  her,  and  always  with  some  aioli  or  bouilla- 
baisse a-cooking. 

The  Corsicans,  on  the  other  hand,  beyond  their 
regular  service,  did  absolutely  nothing.  They 
considered  themselves  functionaries,  and  passed 
their  days  in  the  kitchen  playing  interminable 
games  of  scopa,  never  interrupting  them  except  to 
relight  their  pipes  with  a  grave  air,  and  to  cut  up 
into  the  hollow  of  their  hands,  with  scissors,  the  big 
green  tobacco-leaves. 

In  other  respects,  Marseillais  and  Corsicans, 
they  were  all  three  good  fellows,  simple,  artless, 
full  of  attentions  for  their  guest,  though  in  their 
hearts  they  must  have  thought  him  a  very  ex- 
traordinary gentleman. 

Just  think !  to  come  and  shut  himself  up  in  a 
lighthouse  for  pleasure !  They,  who  found  the 
days  so  long,  and  felt  so  happy  when  their  turn 
came  to  go  ashore.  In  the  summer  season  this 
great  happiness  was  allowed  them  once  a  month. 
Ten  days  ashore  for  thirty  days  of  lighthouse ; 
that  is  the  rule ;  but  in  winter  and  bad  weather  no 
rule  holds  good.  The  wind  blows,  the  waves  rise, 
the  Sanguinaires  are  white  with  foam,  and  the 
keepers  on  duty  are  kept  confined  for  two  or  three 
months  together,  and  sometimes  under  terrible 
conditions. 

"  Here  's  what  happened  to  me,  monsieur,"  said 
old  Bartoli  one  day  as  we  were  dining.  "  Here  's 
what  happened  to  me  five  years  ago  of  a  winter's 


The  Lighthouse.  59 

evening,  at  this  very  table  where  we  are  now.  That 
night  there  were  only  two  of  us  in  the  lighthouse, 
I  and  a  comrade  called  Tcheco.  The  others  were 
ashore,  ill,  or  on  their  holiday,  I  forget  which. 
We  were  finishing  dinner,  very  quietly,  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  my  comrade  stopped  eating,  looked 
at  me  for  a  moment  with  such  queer  eyes,  and, 
poof!  he  fell  upon  the  table  his  arms  stretched 
out.     I  ran  to  him,  shook  him,  called  him :  — 

"<OTch6!  OTche!' 

"  Not  a  word  !  he  was  dead.  You  can  think  what 
emotion.  I  stood  more  than  an  hour  stupid  and 
trembling  before  that  corpse,  then  suddenly  the 
thought  came  to  me  —  the  beacon  !  I  had  only 
time  to  climb  to  the  lantern  and  light  it  before 
night  fell.  And  what  a  night,  monsieur!  The 
sea,  the  wind  did  not  have  their  natural  voices. 
Every  second  it  seemed  to  me  that  some  one  called 
me  from  below.  And  such  fever !  such  thirst ! 
But  you  could  n't  have  made  me  go  down  —  I  was 
so  frightened  of  death.  However,  by  dawn,  a 
little  courage  came  back  to  me.  I  carried  my 
comrade  to  his  bed ;  a  sheet  above  him,  a  bit  of 
a  prayer,  and  then,  quick !   the  danger  signal. 

"Unfortunately,  the  sea  ran  high ;  in  vain  I  called, 
called ;  no  one  came.  And  there  I  was,  alone  in 
the  lighthouse  with  my  poor  Tch6co  for  God  knows 
how  long.  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  keep  him  near  me 
till  the  arrival  of  the  boat;  but  after  three  days 
that  was  impossible.  What  should  I  do?  Carry 
him  outside?  Bury  him?  The  rock  was  too  hard, 
and  there  are  so  many  crows  on  the   island.     It 


60  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

would  have  been  a  shame  to  abandon  that  Chris- 
tian to  their  maws.  Then  I  bethought  me  of  tak- 
ing him  down  to  one  of  those  cells  of  the  lazaretto. 
It  took  me  a  whole  afternoon  to  make  that  sad 
procession,  and,  I  tell  you,  it  needed  courage,  too. 
Do  you  know,  monsieur,  that  even  now  when  I  go 
down  on  that  side  of  the  island  in  a  high  wind  I 
fancy  that  I  still  have  that  corpse  on  my  shoulders." 
Poor  old  Bartoli !  the  perspiration  stood  out  on 
his  forehead  for  merely  thinking  of  it. 

Our  meals  were  passed  in  chatting  thus:  the 
beacon,  the  sea,  with  tales  of  shipwreck  and  of 
Corsican  pirates.  Then  as  daylight  faded,  the 
keeper  of  the  first  watch  lighted  his  lamp,  took 
his  pipe,  his  flask,  a  little  red-edged  Plutarch  (the 
entire  library  of  the  Sanguinaires)  and  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.  In  a  minute  we  heard  in  the 
depths  below  a  rattle  of  chains  and  pulleys,  and  the 
heavy  weights  of  a  clock  that  was  being  wound  up. 

As  for  me  during  this  time,  I  sat  outside  on  the 
terrace.  The  sun,  now  very  low,  was  descending 
quickly  into  the  water,  carrying  the  horizon  with 
it.  The  wind  freshened,  the  island  became  violet. 
In  the  sky,  a  big  bird  passed  heavily  quite  near 
me ;  it  was  the  eagle  of  the  tower  coming  home. 
Little  by  little  the  sea-mist  rose.  Soon  I  could 
see  only  the  white  fringe  round  the  isle.  Sud- 
denly, above  my  head,  a  soft  flood  of  light  gushed 
out.  '  Twas  the  beacon.  Leaving  the  rest  of  the 
island  in  shadow,  the  clear  broad  ray  fell  full  upon 
the  water,  and  I  was  lost  in  darkness  below  that 


The  Lighthouse.  6 1 

luminous  great  flood,  which  scarcely  spattered  me 
in  passing.  .  .  But  the  wind  is  freshening  still.  I 
must  go  in.  Feeling  my  way  I  enter  and  close  the 
great  door.  I  put  up  the  iron  bars ;  then,  still  feel- 
ing before  me,  I  go  up  the  cast-iron  stairway,  which 
trembles  and  sounds  beneath  my  feet ;  and  thus  I 
reach  the  summit  of  the  lighthouse.  Here  indeed 
is  brilliancy. 

Imagine  a  gigantic  Carcel  lamp  with  six  rows 
of  wicks,  around  which  slowly  revolve  the  sides  of 
the  lantern ;  some  are  filled  with  an  enormous  lens 
of  crystal,  others  open  on  a  stationary  sash  of  glass 
which  shelters  the  flame  from  the  breeze.  On 
entering,  I  was  dazzled.  The  brasses,  pewters, 
tin  reflectors,  the  walls  of  convex  crystal  turning 
with  those  great  bluish  circles,  all  this  glitter  and 
clash  of  lights  gave  me  a  moment  of  giddiness. 

Little  by  little,  however,  my  eyes  grew  accus- 
tomed to  the  glare,  and  I  seated  myself  at  the  foot 
of  the  lamp  beside  the  keeper,  who  was  reading  his 
Plutarch  aloud  to  keep  himself  from  going  to  sleep. 

Without,  darkness,  the  abyss.  On  the  little 
balcony  which  runs  round  the  lantern  the  wind  is 
rushing  like  a  madman,  howling.  The  lighthouse 
cracks,  the  sea  roars.  At  the  point  of  the  isle,  on 
the  reefs,  the  waves  make  a  noise  like  cannon. 
Invisible  fingers  rap  now  and  then  on  the  glass  — 
some  night-bird,  allured  by  the  light,  which  beats 
out  its  brains  on  the  crystal.  Within  the  warm 
and  sparkling  lantern  nothing  is  heard  but  the 
crackling  of  the  flame,  the  sound  of  the  oil  drop- 
ping, of  the  chain  winding,  and  the   monotonous 


62  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

voice  of  the  reader  intoning  the  life  of  Demetrius 
of  Phalaris. 

At  midnight  the  keeper  rises,  casts  a  final  look 
at  his  wicks,  and  we  both  go  down.  On  the  stair-  j 
way  we  meet  the  comrade  of  the  second  watch, 
who  is  coming  up,  rubbing  his  eyes.  We  pass  him 
the  flask  and  the  Plutarch.  Then  before  we  seek 
our  beds  we  go  for  a  moment  to  the  lower  chamber, 
encumbered  with  chains,  heavy  weights,  reserves 
of  tin,  of  cordage,  and  there,  by  the  gleam  of  his 
little  lamp  the  keeper  writes  in  the  big  book  of  the 
beacon,  the  log,  always  open :  — 

"  Midnight.     Heavy    sea. .  Tempest.     Ship     in 
the  offing." 


The   Wreck  of  the  "  Semillante.)y       6$ 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "  SEMILLANTE." 

As  the  mistral  of  the  other  night  cast  us  on  the 
Corsican  coast  let  me  tell  you  a  terrible  tale  of  the 
sea  which  the  fishermen  over  there  often  relate  in 
their  night  watches,  and  about  which  chance  sup- 
plied me  with  very  curious  information. 

It  was  two  or  three  years  ago  that  I  was  roving 
the  Sea  of  Sardinia  with  six  or  seven  custom-house 
sailors.  A  rough  trip  for  a  novice.  Through- 
out the  month  of  March  we  had  but  one  fine  day. 
The  east  wind  pursued  us  and  the  sea  never  ceased 
to  rage. 

One  night  that  we  were  running  before  the  gale, 
our  boat  took  shelter  among  a  crowd  of  little  islands 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Straits  of  Bonifacio.  The 
aspect  of  those  islands  was  not  engaging:  great 
barren  rocks  covered  with  birds,  a  few  tufts  of  ab- 
sinthe, thickets  of  mastic-trees,  and  here  and  there 
in  the  swamps  logs  of  wood  in  process  of  rotting. 
But  for  passing  the  night,  i'  faith  those  dangerous- 
looking  rocks  seemed  safer  than  the  cabin  of  a 
half-decked  old  boat  where  the  sea  entered  as  if  it 
were  at  home ;  and  so  we  were  quite  contented  to 
go  ashore. 

We  had  barely  landed  and  the  sailors  were  light- 
ing a  fire  to  cook  the  bouillabaisse,  when  the  skip- 


64  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

per  called  me,  and,  said  pointing  to  a  little  inclosure 
of  white  masonry  almost  hidden  in  the  fog  at  the 
end  of  the  island :  — - 

"  Will  you  come  to  the  cemetery?  " 

"  Cemetery,  Captain  Lionetti !  Where  are  we, 
then?" 

"At  the  Lavezzi  Islands,  monsieur.  This  is 
where  the  six  hundred  men  of  the  •'  S6millante ' 
are  buried,  exactly  where  their  frigate  was  wrecked 
just  ten  years  ago.  Poor  fellows  !  they  don't  have 
many  visitors,  and  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  say 
good-day  to  them,  now  we  are  here." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  captain." 

How  sad  it  was,  that  cemetery  of  the  "  S6mil- 
lante !  "  I  see  it  still  with  its  little  low  wall,  its 
rusty  iron  door,  hard  to  open,  its  silent  chapel,  and 
its  hundreds  of  black  crosses  half-hidden  by  the 
grass.  Not  a  crown  of  immortelles,  not  a  sou- 
venir !  nothing.  Ah !  the  poor  abandoned  dead, 
how  cold  they  must  be  in  those  chance  graves. 

We  remained  a  few  moments  on  our  knees. 
The  skipper  prayed  aloud.  Enormous  gulls,  sole 
guardians  of  the  cemetery,  circled  above  our 
heads,  mingling  their  hoarse  cries  with  the  lamen- 
tations of  the  ocean. 

The  prayer  ended,  we  returned  sadly  to  the  end 
of  the  island,  where  our  boat  was  moored.  Dur- 
ing our  absence  the  sailors  had  not  lost  their  time. 
We  found  a  great  fire  flaming  in  the  shelter  of  a 
rock,  and  a  smoking  sauce-pan.  Every  one  sat 
down  in  a  circle,  his  feet  to  the  flame,  and  each 


The   Wreck  of  the  "  Semillante"       65 

received  in  a  red  earthen  bowl  two  slices  of  black 
bread  thoroughly  steeped.  The  meal  was  silent; 
we  were  wet,  we  were  hungry,  and  then,  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  cemetery!  .  .  However, 
when  the  bowls  were  empty  we  lighted  our  pipes, 
and  talk  began.  Naturally  we  spoke  of  the 
|  Semillante." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen?"  I  asked  the  skipper, 
who  was  gazing  at  the  flames  with  a  pensive  air, 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  How  did  it  happen?  "  replied  the  good  Lion- 
etti  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  Alas  !  monsieur,  no  one 
in  the  world  can  tell  you  that.  All  we  know 
is  that  the  '  Semillante,'  carrying  troops  to  the 
Crimea,  sailed  from  Toulon  one  evening  in  bad 
weather.  It  grew  worse  at  night.  Wind,  rain,  and 
a  sea  the  like  of  which  was  never  seen.  Towards 
morning  the  wind  fell  a  little  but  the  sea  was  wild, 
and  with  it  a  devilish  cursed  fog  in  which  you 
could  n't  see  a  light  at  four  steps  off.  Those  fogs, 
monsieur,  you  have  no  idea  how  treacherous  they 
are.  But  for  all  that,  my  idea  of  the  '  Semillante ' 
is  that  she  lost  her  rudder  that  morning,  for  there 's 
no  fog  that  holds  on  without  lifting  a  little,  and 
that  captain  of  hers  would  have  seen  enough  not 
to  lay  himself  out  on  these  rocks.  He  was  an  old 
salt  and  we  all  knew  him.  He  had  commanded 
the  Corsica  Station  for  three  years  and  knew  the 
coast  as  well  as  I  who  know  nothing  else." 

"What  time  of  day  is  it  thought  that  the 
\  Semillante  '  perished  ?  " 

"  It  must  have  been  midday ;  yes,  monsieur,  just 
5 


66  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

midday.  But  goodness  !  with  that  sea-fog  midday 
was  no  better  than  midnight.  A  custom-house 
man  ashore  told  me  that  about  half-past  eleven  on 
that  day,  coming  out  of  his  hut  to  fasten  the  shut- 
ters, his  cap  was  carried  off  by  the  wind,  and  at  the 
risk  of  being  blown  himself  into  the  sea  he  scram- 
bled after  it  along  the  shore  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
You  understand !  custom-house  folks  are  not  rich, 
and  Caps  cost  dear.  It  seems  that  once  when  he 
raised  his  head  he  saw,  quite  close  to  him  in  the 
fog,  a  big  ship  under  bare  poles  running  before  the 
wind  toward  the  Lavezzi  Islands.  She  went  so 
fast,  so  fast  that  the  man  had  scarcely  time  to 
see  her.  But  every  one  believes  she  was  the 
'  Semillante,'  for  half  an  hour  later  a  shepherd 
found  her  lying  on  these  rocks.  And  here  he  is, 
monsieur,  that  shepherd,  just  as  I  am  speaking 
of  him,  and  he  will  tell  you  the  thing  himself. 
Good-day,  Palombo !  come  and  warm  yourself  a 
bit;  don't  be  afraid." 

A  man  in  a  hooded  mantle  whom  I  had  noticed 
for  the  last  few  minutes  hovering  around  our  fire, 
and  whom  I  thought  to  be  one  of  the  crew,  being 
ignorant  that  a  shepherd  was  on  the  island,  now 
came  forward  timidly. 

He  was  a  leprous  old  fellow,  three-quarters 
idiotic,  the  victim  of  some  scorbutic  disease  which 
gave  him  thick  swollen  lips  very  horrible  to  see. 
The  skipper  made  him  understand  with  difficulty 
what  we  wanted  of  him,  and  then,  raising  with  one 
finger  his  diseased  lip,  the  old  man  related  how  on 
the  day  in  question,  being  in  his  hut  about  midday, 


The   Wreck  of  the  "  Semillanter       67 

he  heard  an  awful  crash  upon  the  rocks.  As  the 
island  was  covered  with  water  he  could  not  leave 
the  hut,  and  it  was  not  until  the  next  day  that,  on 
opening  his  door,  he  saw  the  shore  piled  up  with 
wreckage  and  with  corpses  washed  in  by  the  sea. 
Horrified,  he  ran  to  his  boat  and  went  to  Boni- 
facio in  search  of  help. 

Tired  with  having  talked  so  much  the  shepherd 
sat  down,  and  the  skipper  resumed  the  tale:  — 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  that  poor  old  fellow  came  to 
warn  us.  He  was  almost  crazy  with  terror,  and 
ever  since  then  his  brain  has  been  off  the  track 
—  and  good  reason,  too.  Imagine  six  hundred 
bodies  in  a  heap  on  that  beach,  pell-mell  with 
splintered  woodwork  and  rags  of  sail.  Poor 
1  Semillante ' !  the  sea  had  crushed  her  at  one 
blow  and  torn  her  to  such  fragments  that  Palombo 
could  scarcely  find  enough  to  build  him  a  fence 
around  his  hut.  As  for  the  bodies,  they  were 
nearly  all  disfigured  and  horribly  mutilated ;  it 
was  piteous  to  see  them  grappling  to  one  another. 
We  found  the  captain  in  full  uniform,  and  the 
chaplain  with  his  stole  round  his  neck ;  in  a  corner 
between  two  rocks,  was  a  little  cabin-boy  with  his 
eyes  wide  open ;  you  might  have  thought  he  was 
alive,  but  no !  It  was  written  above  that  no  one 
should  escape  —  M 

Here  the  skipper  interrupted  himself. 

"  Attention,  Nardi !  "  he  cried ;  "  the  fire  is  go- 
ing out." 

Nardi    thereupon    threw   two    or    three    tarred 


68  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

planks  upon  the  embers,  which  flamed  up  brightly, 
and  Lionetti  continued  :  — 

"  The  saddest  part  of  the  whole  story  is  this : 
Three  weeks  before  the  disaster  a  little  corvette, 
on  her  way,  like  the  '  Semillante,'  to  the  Crimea, 
was  wrecked  in  the  same  way  and  almost  at  the 
same  spot ;  only,  that  time  we  succeeded  in  saving 
the  crew  and  twenty  artillery  men  who  were 
aboard.  We  took  them  to  Bonifacio  and  kept 
them  two  days.  But  once  dry  and  afoot,  good- 
night and  good-luck !  the  artillery  men  returned 
to  Toulon,  where,  soon  after,  they  were  again  em- 
barked for  the  Crimea  —  guess  on  what  ship? 
On  the  ■  Semillante '  monsieur  !  We  found  them 
all,  the  whole  twenty,  lying  among  the  dead  just 
about  where  we  now  are.  I  myself  picked  up 
a  pretty  little  corporal  with  a  delicate  moustache, 
a  Paris  dandy,  whom  I  had  had  in  my  own  house 
and  who  had  kept  us  laughing  the  whole  time  with 
his  tales.  To  see  him  lying  here,  dead,  almost 
broke  my  heart.     Ah  !   Santa  Madre  !  " 

Thereupon  the  worthy  Lionetti,  shaking  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  and  rolling  himself  up  in  his 
hooded  cloak  wished  me  good-night.  For  some 
time  longer  the  sailors  talked  together  in  low 
tones.  Then,  one  after  another,  the  pipes  went 
out.  No  one  spoke.  The  old  shepherd  went 
away.  And  I  was  left  alone  to  dream  in  the  midst 
of  the  sleeping  crew. 

Under  the  impression  of  the  lugubrious  tale  I 
have  just  heard,  I  try  to  reconstruct   in   thought 


The    Wreck  of  the  "  StimUlante?       69 

the  poor  lost  frigate  and  the  story  of  the  death- 
throes  that  the  gulls  alone  had  witnessed.  Certain 
details  which  have  struck  my  mind  —  the  captain 
in  full  uniform,  the  chaplain's  stole,  the  twenty 
artillery  men  —  help  me  to  divine  the  various  vicis- 
situdes of  the  drama.  .  .  I  see  the  frigate  leaving 
Toulon  at  dusk  .  .  .  she  comes  out  into  the  offing. 
The  sea  is  rough,  the  wind  terrible ;  but  the 
captain  is  a  valiant  sailor,  and  every  one  aboard 
is  confident.  .  . 

In  the  morning  the  sea-fog  rises.  Uneasiness  is 
felt.  The  crew  are  aloft.  The  captain  does  not 
quit  the  bridge.  Below,  where  the  soldiers  are 
shut  up,  it  is  dark ;  the  atmosphere  is  hot.  Some 
are  ill,  lying  with  their  heads  upon  their  knap- 
sacks. The  ship  rolls  horribly;  impossible  to 
keep  their  feet.  They  talk  as  they  sit,  in  groups 
on  the  floor,  and  clinging  to  the  benches ;  they 
shout  in  order  to  be  heard.  A  few  are  begin- 
ning to  feel  afraid.  Shipwrecks  are  so  frequent 
in  these  latitudes;  the  artillery  men  are  there 
to  say  so,  and  what  they  tell  is  not  reassuring. 
Their  corporal  especially,  a  Parisian,  always  jest- 
ing, though  he  makes  your  flesh  creep  with  his 
jokes. 

"Shipwreck?  why,  it  is  very  amusing,  a  ship- 
wreck. We  shall  get  off  with  an  icy  bath,  and 
they  '11  take  us  to  Bonifacio ;  capital  eating  at  old 
Lionetti's." 

And  his  comrades  laugh. 

Suddenly,  a  crash.  What's  that?  What  has 
happened? 


jo  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"The  rudder  has  gone,"  says  a  dripping  sailor, 
crossing  between  decks  at  a  run. 

"  Bon  voyage  !  "  cries  that  incorrigible  corporal, 
but  no  one  laughs  with  him  now. 

Great  tumult  on  deck.  The  fog  obstructs  all 
view.  The  sailors  go  and  come,  frightened,  and 
feeling  their  way.  .  .  No  rudder!  Impossible 
to  work  the  ship !  The  "  Semillante,"  drifting, 
goes  with  the  wind.  It  is  then  that  the  custom- 
house sailor  sees  her  pass;  it  is  half-past  eleven 
o'clock.  Ahead  of  the  frigate  something  sounds 
like  the  roar  of  cannon.  .  .  Breakers  !  breakers  ! 
'T  is  over,  all  hope  is  gone,  they  are  driving  ashore. 
The  captain  goes  down  into  his  cabin.  The  next 
moment  he  returns  to  his  place  on  the  bridge, 
wearing  his  full  uniform.  He  will  meet  death  with 
dignity. 

Between  decks  the  soldiers  look  at  one  another 
anxiously,  but  say  nothing.  The  sick  ones  try  to 
rise;  the  corporal  laughs  no  longer.  It  is  then 
that  the  door  opens  and  the  chaplain  in  his  stole 
appears  upon  the  threshold. 

"  Kneel  down,  my  sons." 

They  all  obey.  In  a  ringing  voice  the  priest 
reads  the  prayer  for  the  dying. 

Suddenly  an  awful  shock,  a  cry,  a  single  cry, 
an  immense  cry,  arms  stretched  out,  hands  that 
clutch,  eyes  aghast,  o'er  which  the  vision  of  death 
passes  in  a  flash  — 

Oh,  mercy !  .  . 

It  was  thus  that  I  spent  the  whole  night  in  dream- 
ing, in  evoking,  after  a  space  of  ten  years,  the  soul 


The   Wreck  of  the  "  Senzillante"       •)  i 

of  that  poor  ship  whose  fragments  surrounded  me. 
Afar,  in  the  straits,  the  storm  was  raging;  the 
flame  of  the  bivouac  bent  to  the  blast !  and  I  heard 
our  boat  tossing  below  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks  and 
straining  at  her  hawser. 


7  *  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


CUSTOM-HOUSE   PEOPLE. 

A  FEW  years  ago,  the  inspector-general  of  cus- 
toms in  Corsica  took  me  on  one  of  his  rounds 
along  the  coast.  Without  seeming  to  be  so,  it 
was  really  a. very  long  voyage.  Forty  days  at  sea, 
almost  as  long  as  it  takes  to  go  to  Havana,  and 
this  in  an  old  boat  with  a  half-deck  where  nothing 
sheltered  us  from  wind,  waves,  and  rain  but  a 
little  tarred  roof  scarcely  large  enough  to  cover 
two  berths  and  a  table.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  the 
sailors  in  bad  weather.  Their  faces  streamed; 
their  soaked  jackets  smoked  like  linen  in  the 
drying-room.  In  mid-winter  the  poor  fellows 
passed  whole  days  in  this  condition,  and  even 
nights,  crouched  on  their  wet  benches,  shivering 
in  that  unhealthy  dampness;  for  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  light  a  fire  on  board  and  the  shore 
was  sometimes  difficult  to  reach.  Well,  not  a 
single  one  of  those  men  complained.  In  the 
roughest  weather  I  always  saw  them  just  as  placid, 
and  in  just  the  same  good-humour.  And  yet, 
what  a  melancholy  life  it  is,  that  of  custom-house 
sailors ! 

Nearly  all  of  them  are  married,  with  wife  and  chil- 
dren ashore,  yet  they  stay  months  at  sea,  cruising 


Custom-House  People.  73 

around  those  dangerous  coasts.  By  way  of  food 
they  have  nothing  but  damp  bread  and  wild 
onions.  Never  wine  or  meat,  for  wine  and  meat 
cost  dear  and  all  they  earn  is  five  hundred  francs 
a  year.  Five  hundred  francs  a  year !  you  can 
imagine  what  the  hovel  must  be  on  the  Marina  and 
whether  the  children  go  barefoot.  No  matter ! 
they  all  seem  happy,  those  people.  In  front  of 
the  cabin,  aft,  stood  a  great  cask  of  rain-water,  at 
which  the  crew  drank;  and  I  remember  that 
when  they  had  taken  their  last  swallow,  each  of 
the  poor  devils  shook  out  his  glass  with  an 
"  Ah ! "  of  satisfaction,  an  expression  of  comfort 
both  comical  and  affecting. 

The  gayest  and  most  contented  of  all  was  a 
little  Bonifacian,  squat  and  swarthy,  called  Palombo. 
He  was  always  singing,  even  in  the  worst  weather. 
When  the  waves  were  high  and  the  sky,  dark  and 
lowering,  was  full  of  sleet,  and  all  were  standing, 
their  noses  in  the  air,  hands  to  the  sheet,  watching 
the  coming  gust,  then,  in  the  great  silence  and 
anxiety  of  all  on  board,  the  tranquil  voice  of 
Palombo  would  begin  :  — 

"  Non,  monseigneur, 
Cest  trop  dyhonneury 
Lisette  est  sa-agey 
Reste  au  villa-age" 

And  the  squall  might  blow,  shaking  and  sub- 
merging the  vessel  and  making  the  rigging  moan, 
the  sailor's  song  continued,  floating  like  a  gull  on 
the  breast  of  the  waves.  Sometimes  the  wind 
played    too    strong    an    accompaniment    and    the 


74  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

words  were  drowned;  but  between  each  dash  of 
the  seas  as  the  water  ran  out  of  the  scuppers,  the 
chorus  was  heard  again :  — 

"  Lisette  est  sa-aget 
Reste  au  villa-age? 

One  day,  however,  it  rained  and  blew  so  hard  I 
did  not  hear  it.  This  was  so  extraordinary  that  I 
put  my  head  out  of  the  cabin.  "  Hey !  Palombo, 
why  don't  you  sing?"  Palombo  did  not  answer. 
He  was  motionless,  lying  on  his  bench.  I  went 
out  to  him.  His  teeth  were  chattering;  his 
whole  body  trembled  with  fever.  "  He  has  got  the 
pountoura"  said  his  comrades,  sadly.  What  they 
called  pountoura  is  a  stitch  in  the  side,  a  pleurisy. 
The  great  leaden  sky,  the  streaming  vessel,  the 
poor  feverish  soul  wrapped  in  an  old  india-rubber 
coat  which  glistened  in  the  rain  like  a  seal's 
back  —  I  never  saw  anything  more  lugubrious. 
Soon  the  cold,  the  wind,  the  dashing  of  the  waves 
aggravated  his  trouble.  Delirium  seized  him ;  it 
was  necessary  to  put  him  ashore. 

After  much  time  and  many  efforts  we  entered, 
towards  evening,  a  little  harbour,  silent  and  barren, 
where  nothing  stirred  but  the  circular  sweep  of  a 
few  gulls.  Around  the  shore  rose  high,  scarped 
rocks  and  impermeable  thickets  of  shrubs  of  a  dull 
green,  perennial  and  without  season.  Low  down, 
near  the  water,  was  a  little  white  house  with  gray 
shutters,  the  custom-house  post.  In  the  midst  of 
this  desert,  the  government  building,  numbered 
like  a  uniform  cap,  had  something  sinister  about  it. 


Custom-House  Peoftie.  75 

There  poor  Palombo  was  put  ashore.  Melancholy 
haven  for  a  sick  man.  We  found  the  custom-house 
official  in  charge  of  the  place  supping  with  his  wife 
and  children  in  the  chimney-corner.  All  these 
people  had  haggard,  yellow  faces,  and  large  eyes 
circled  with  fever.  The  mother,  still  young,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms,  shivered  as  she  spoke  to  us. 
"  It  is  a  terrible  post,"  the  inspector  said  to  me  in 
a  low  voice.  "  We  are  obliged  to  renew  our  men 
here  every  two  years.  The  fever  of  that  marsh 
eats  them  up." 

It  was  necessary  to  get  a  doctor.  There  was 
none  nearer  than  Sartena,  and  that  was  six  or  eight 
leagues  distant.  What  was  to  be  done?  Our 
sailors  were  tired  out  and  could  do  no  more,  and 
it  was  too  far  to  send  a  child.  Then  the  wife, 
looking  out  of  the  door,  called  "  Cecco  !  Cecco  !  " 
and  a  tall,  well  set-up  young  fellow  entered,  true 
type  of  a  smuggler  or  a  bandit,  with  his  brown 
woollen  cap  and  his  goatskin  mantle.  As  we  landed 
I  had  noticed  him  sitting  before  the  door,  his  red 
pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his  gun  between  his  legs ; 
but  he  disappeared,  I  knew  not  why,  at  our 
approach.  Perhaps  he  thought  gendarmes  were 
with  us.  As  he  entered,  the  wife  coloured  a  little. 
"  This  is  my  cousin,"  she  said.  "  No  danger  that 
he  will  get  lost  in  the  thicket."  Then  she  spoke 
to  him  in  a  low  voice  and  showed  him  the  patient. 
The  man  nodded  without  replying,  went  out, 
whistled  to  his  dog,  and  started,  his  gun  on  his 
shoulder,  springing  from  rock  to  rock  with  his 
long  legs. 


76  Letters  from  My  Mill 

During  this  time  the  children,  whom  the  presence 
of  the  inspector  seemed  to  terrify,  finished  their 
dinner  of  chestnuts  and  bruccio  (white  cheese). 
Water,  nothing  but  water  on  the  table!  And  yet 
what  good  a  drop  of  wine  would  have  done  them, 
poor  little  things.  Ah,  poverty !  .  .  At  last  the 
mother  took  them  up  to  bed;  the  father  lighted 
his  lantern  and  went  to  inspect  the  coast,  and  we 
sat  still  by  the  fire  to  watch  our  sick  man,  who 
tossed  on  his  pallet  as  if  at  sea  shaken  by  the 
waves.  To  quiet  his  poantoitra  a  little  we  warmed 
pebbles  and  bricks  and  laid  them  at  his  side. 
Once  or  twice  when  I  approached  his  bed  the  poor 
fellow  knew  me,  and  to  thank  me  stretched  out  his 
hand  with  difficulty,  a  large  hand,  rough  and  burn- 
ing as  one  of  those  bricks  we  took  from  the  fire. 

Sad  watch !  Outside,  the  bad  weather  had  re- 
turned with  the  close  of  day.  All  was  uproar,  the 
rolling  of  waves,  the  dashing  of  spray,  the  battle  of 
rocks  and  water.  From  time  to  time  the  tempest 
on  the  open  sea  succeeded  in  entering  the  bay  and 
swirling  around  the  house.  We  felt  it  in  the  sud- 
den rise  of  the  flame  which  lighted  the  mournful 
faces  of  the  sailors  grouped  around  the  chimney 
and  looking  at  the  fire  with  that  placidity  of  ex- 
pression given  by  the  habitual  presence  of  great 
expanse  and  far  horizons.  Sometimes  Palombo 
gently  moaned ;  and  then  all  eyes  were  turned  to 
the  dark  corner  where  the  poor  comrade  was  dying 
far  from  his  family  and  without  succour ;  the  chests 
heaved  and  I  heard  great  sighs.  That  was  all  that 
the  sense  of  their  unfortunate  lot  drew  from  these 


Custom-House  People.  J  J 

gentle  and  patient  toilers  of  the  sea.  A  sigh,  and 
nothing  more  !  Stay,  I  am  wrong.  Passing  before 
me  to  throw  a  clod  on  the  fire,  one  of  them  said 
in  a  low  and  heart-breaking  voice :  "  You  see 
monsieur,  we  have  sometimes  great  troubles  in  our 
business." 


78  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


THE  CURE  OF  CUCUGNAN. 

EVERY  year  at  Candlemas  the  Provencal  poets 
publish  at  Avignon  a  jovial  little  book  full  to  the 
brim  of  merry  tales  and  pretty  verses.  That  of 
this  year  has  just  reached  me,  and  in  it  I  find  an 
adorable  fabliau  which  I  shall  try  to  translate  for 
you,  slightly  abridging  it.  Parisians !  hold  out 
your  sacks.  It  is  the  finest  brand  of  Provencal 
flour  that  I  serve  you  this  day. 

The  Abb6  Martin  was  cure"  of  Cucugnan. 

Good  as  bread,  honest  as  gold,  he  loved  his 
Cucugnanese  paternally.  To  him,  Cucugnan  would 
have  been  heaven  upon  earth  if  the  Cucugnanese 
had  given  him  a  little  more  satisfaction.  But  alas ! 
the  spiders  spun  their  webs  in  his  confessional,  and 
on  the  glorious  Easter-day  the  Host  remained  in 
the  holy  pyx.  This  harrowed  ^the  heart  of  the 
worthy  priest,  and  he  was  always  asking  God  to 
grant  that  he  might  not  die  until  he  had  brought 
back  to  the  fold  his  scattered  flock. 

Now  you  shall  see  how  God  listened  to  him. 

One  Sunday,  after  the  Gospel,  M.  Martin  went 
up  into  the  pulpit. 

"  Brethren,"  he  said,  "  you  may  believe  me  if 
you  like :  the  other  night  I  found  myself,  I,  a 
miserable  sinner,  at  the  gates  of  Paradise. 


a  « 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan.  79 

I  rapped  ;   Saint  Peter  came. 
Bless    me !    is   it   you,   my  worthy   Monsieur 
Martin?'  he  said  to   me.     'What  good  wind  has 
brought  you  ?  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  ' 

" '  Great  Saint  Peter,  you  who  hold  the  big  book 
and  the  keys,  would  you  tell  me,  if  I  am  not 
too  curious,  how  many  Cucugnanese  you  have  in 
Paradise  ? ' 

"  '  I  can't  refuse  you  anything,  Monsieur  Martin  ; 
sit  down ;  we  will  look  the  thing  out  together.' 

"  And  Saint  Peter  got  out  his  big  book,  opened 
it,  and  put  on  his  spectacles. 

"  '  Let  me  see :  Cucugnan,  did  you  say?  Cu  .  .  . 
Cu  .  .  .  Cucugnan.  Here  we  are,  Cucugnan.  .  . 
My  dear  Monsieur  Martin,  it  is  a  blank  page.  Not 
a  soul.  .  .  No  more  Cucugnanese  in  Paradise  than 
fishbones  in  a  turkey.' 

"  '  What !  No  one  from  Cucugnan  here  ?  No 
one?     It  is  n't  possible  !     Do  look  again.' 

" '  No  one,  holy  man.  Look  yourself  if  you 
think  I  am  joking.' 

"  '  I,  pfaaire  ! '  I  stamped  my  feet  and  I  cried 
for  mercy  with  clasped  hands.  Whereupon  Saint 
Peter  said :  — 

"  '  Monsieur  Martin,  you  must  not  turn  your  heart 
inside  out  in  this  way,  or  you'll  have  a  fit  of  some' 
kind.  It  is  n't  your  fault,  after  all.  Those  Cu- 
cugnanese of  yours,  don't  you  see,  they  '11  have  to 
do  their  quarantine  in  purgatory.' 

"  '  Oh !  for  pity's  sake,  great  Saint  Peter,  let 
me  just  go  to  purgatory  for  a  minute  to  see  them 
and  comfort  them.' 


80  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"  '  Willingly,  my  friend.  .  .  Here,  put  on  these 
sandals,  for  the  roads  are  none  too  good.  That 's 
right.  Now  go  straight  before  you.  Don't  you 
see  a  turning  a  long  way  down?  There  you  '11 
find  a  silver  door  all  studded  with  black  crosses  — 
on  your  right.  Knock,  and  they  '11  open  to  you. 
Adieu  !     Keep  well  and  lively.' 

"Down  I  went — down,  down!  What  a  strug- 
gle !  My  flesh  creeps  for  only  thinking  of  it. 
A  narrow  path,  full  of  briers  and  big  shiny 
beetles  and  snakes  hissing,  brought  me  to  the 
silver  door. 

"Pan!  pan! 

" '  Who  knocks?'  said  a  hoarse  and  dismal  voice. 

"  '  The  cure"  of  Cucugnan.' 

"'Of—?' 

" '  Of  Cucugnan.' 

"  '  Ah  !  .  .  Come  in.' 

"  I  went  in.  A  tall,  handsome  angel  with  wings 
black  as  night  and  a  garment  resplendent  as  day, 
and  a  diamond  key  hanging  to  his  belt,  was  writ- 
ing, cra-cra,  in  a  big  book  —  bigger  than  that  of 
Saint  Peter. 

"'Now  then,  what  do  you  want?'  asked  the 
angel. 

"  '  Noble  angel  of  God,  I  want  to  know  —  per- 
haps you'll  think  me  very  inquisitive  —  whether 
my  Cucugnanese  are  here.' 

"'Your—?' 

" '  Cucugnanese,  the  inhabitants  of  Cucugnan. 
I  am  their  prior.' 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan.  81 

"  *  Ah,  yes  !  the  Abbe  Martin,  isn't  it?  ' 
"  *  At  your  service,  Monsieur  Angel.' 

"  *  You  say  Cucugnan  — ' 

"  And  the  angel  opened  his  big  book,  wetting 
his  finger  with  his  spittle  to  turn  the  leaves  easily. 

" '  Cucugnan,'  he  said,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  *  Mon- 
sieur Martin,  we  have  n't  a  soul  in  purgatory  from 
Cucugnan.' 

"  '  Jesu  !  Marie  !  Joseph  !  not  a  soul  from  Cu- 
cugnan in  purgatory !  Then,  great  God  !  where 
are  they  ? ' 

"  '  Eh  !  holy  man  !  they  are  in  paradise.  Where 
the  deuce  do  you  suppose  they  are  ? ' 

"  '  But  I  have  just  come  from  there,  from  para- 
dise.' 

"  '  You  have  come  from  there  !     Well  ? ' 

"  '  They  are  not  there  !  .  .  Ah  !  merciful  mother 
of  angels  !  .  .' 

"  '  But,  holy  man,  if  they  are  not  in  paradise  and 
not  in  purgatory,  there  is  no  middle  place,  they 
are  in  — ' 

"  '  Holy  Cross  !  Jesus,  son  of  David  !  Aie'  ! 
aie!  aie!  it  isn't  possible?  Can  it  be  that  the 
great  Saint  Peter  lied  to  me  ?  I  did  n't  hear  a 
cock  crow.  .  .  Aie  !  poor  people  !  and  poor  me  ! 
for  how  can  I  go  to  paradise  if  my  Cucugnanese 
are  not  there  ? ' 

" '  Listen    to    me,    my   poor    Monsieur    Martin. 

As  you  want  to  be  so  sure  about  this  thing,  cost 

what  it  may,  and  to  see  with  your  own  eyes  what 

there  is  to  it,  take  this  path  and  run  fast,  if  you 

6 


82  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

know  how  to  run.  You  will  come  to  a  great  big 
portal  on  your  left.  There  you  can  find  out  every- 
thing.    God  grants  it.' 

"  And  the  angel  shut  his  gate. 

"  'T  was  a  long  path,  paved  all  the  way  with  red 
embers.  I  tottered  as  if  I  were  drunk ;  at  every 
step  I  stumbled ;  I  was  bathed  in  perspiration ; 
every  hair  of  my  body  had  its  drop  of  sweat;  I 
panted  with  thirst.  But  thanks  to  the  sandals  that 
good  Saint  Peter  lent  me,  I  did  not  burn  my  feet. 

"  After  I  had  made  many  a  limping  misstep  1 
saw  at  my  left  hand  a  gate  —  no,  a  portal,  an 
enormous  portal,  gaping  wide  .open,  like  the  door 
of  a  big  oven.  O  !  my  children,  what  a  sight ! 
There,  no  one  asked  my  name ;  there,  no  register. 
In  batches,  in  crowds,  people  entered,  just  as  you, 
my  brethren,  go  to  the  wineshops  on  Sunday. 

"I  sweated  great  drops,  and  yet  I  was  chilled 
to  the  bone  and  shuddering.  My  hair  stood  erect. 
I  smelt  burning,  roasting  flesh,  something  like  the 
smell  that  fills  all  Cucugnan  when  Eloy  the  black- 
smith burns  the  hoof  of  an  old  donkey  as  he  shoes 
her.  I  lost  my  breath  in  that  stinking,  fiery  air ; 
I  heard  an  awful  clamour,  moans,   howls,  oaths. 

"  '  Well !  are  you,  or  are  you  not  coming  in, 
you?'  said  a  horned  demon,  pricking  me  with  his 
pitchfork. 

"'I?   I  don't  go  in  there.    I  am  a  friend  of  God,' 

"  '  A  friend  of  God  !  Hey  !  you  scabby  rascal  \ 
what  are  you  doing  here?  ' 

H  '  I  have  come  —  ah  !   I  can't  talk  of  it,  my  legs 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan.  83 

are  giving  way  under  me.  I  have  come  —  I  have 
come  a  long  way — to  humbly  ask  you  —  if — if 
by  chance  —  you  have  here  —  some  one  —  some 
one  from  Cucugnan  — ' 

"  '  Ha  !  fire  of  God  !  '  you  are  playing  stupid, 
are  you  ?  Just  as  if  you  did  n't  know  that  all 
Cucugnan  is  here.  There,  you  ugly  crow,  look 
there,  and  see  how  we  treat  'em  here,  your 
precious  Cucugnanese  — ' 

"  I  looked,  and  saw,  in  the  midst  of  awful,  whirl- 
ing flames, — 

"  That  long  Coq-Galine,  —  you  all  knew  him,  my 
brethren,  —  Coq-Galine,  who  got  drunk  so  often 
and  shook  his  fleas  on  his  poor  Clairette. 

"  I  saw  Catarinet  —  that  little  slut  with  her  nose 
in  the  air  —  who  slept  alone  in  the  barn  —  you 
remember,  you  rascals  ?  But  that  's  enough  — 
enough  said. 

"  I  saw  Pascal  Doigt-de-Pois  who  made  his  oil 
of  M.  Julien's  olives. 

"  I  saw  Babette  the  gleaner,  who,  when  she 
gleaned,  grabbed  handfuls  from  the  sheaves  to 
fill  her  bundle. 

"  I  saw  Maitre  Grabasi,  who  oiled  the  wheel  of 
his  barrow  so  slick ; 

"  And  Dauphine,  who  sold  the  water  of  his  well 
so  dear; 

"  And  Tortillard,  who,  when  he  met  me  carrying 
the  Good  God,  kept  on  his  way  as  if  he  had  only 
met  a  dog,  —  pipe  in  his  mouth,  cap  on  his  head, 
proud  as  Artaban. 


84  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"  And  I  saw  Coulau  with  his  Zette,  and  Jacques, 
and  Pierre,  and  Toni.  .  .  " 

Livid  with  fear,  the  audience  groaned,  beholding, 
through  the  opened  gates  of  hell,  this  one  his  father, 
that  one  her  mother,  some  their  grandmothers,  some 
their  brothers  and  sisters. 

"  You  feel  now,  my  brethren,"  said  the  good 
abb6,  "  that  this  must  not  go  on  any  longer.  I 
have  the  charge  of  souls,  and  I  wish  to  save  you, 
I  wi/lsave  you,  from  the  abyss  to  which  you  are  all 
rolling  head-foremost.  To-morrow  I  shall  set  to 
work — no  later  than  to-morrow.  And  I  shall  have 
my  hands  full.  This  is  what  I  shall  do.  In  order  to 
do  it  well,  it  must  be  done  methodically.  We  will 
go  row  by  row,  as  at  Jonquieres  when  you  dance. 

"To-morrow,  Monday,  I  shall  confess  the  old 
men  and  the  old  women.     That 's  nothing. 

"  Tuesday,  the  children.     Soon  done. 

"Wednesday,  the  lads  and  lasses.  May  take 
long. 

"  Thursday,  the  men.     Cut  them  short. 

"  Friday,  the  women.    I  shall  say :  No  rigmaroles. 

"  Saturday,  the  miller  !  One  whole  day  is  not  too 
much  for  him  alone. 

"  And  Sunday  it  will  all  be  done,  and  we  shall 
be  happy. 

"  You  know,  my  children,  that  when  the  wheat 
is  ripe  it  must  be  cut ;  when  the  wine  is  drawn  it 
must  be  drunk.  Here 's  a  lot  of  dirty  linen  to 
wash,  and  it  must  be  washed,  and  well  washed. 

"  That  is  the  good  I  wish  you.     Amen." 


The  Cure  of  Cucugnan.  85 

What  was  said  was  done.  The  wash  came  off. 
And  since  that  memorable  Sunday  the  fragrance 
of  the  virtues  of  Cucugnan  can  be  smelt  in  an  area 
of  ten  leagues  round. 

And  the  good  pastor,  M.  Martin,  happy  and  gay, 
dreamed  the  other  night  that,  followed  by  his  whole 
flock,  he  mounted,  in  resplendent  procession,  amid 
gleaming  torches,  and  clouds  of  incense  wafted  by 
the  choir-boys  chanting  the  Te  Deum,  the  great 
lighted  road  to  the  City  of  our  God. 

Now  there  's  the  tale  of  the  cure  of  Cucugnan, 
such  as  that  great  rascal  Roumanille  ordered  me 
to  tell  it  to  you ;  he  himself  having  got  it  from 
some  other  good  fellow. 


86  Letters  from  My  MilU 


AGED   FOLK. 

"  A  letter,  Pere  Azan?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur ;  and  it  comes  from  Paris." 

He  was  quite  proud,  that  worthy  old  Azan,  that 
it  came  from  Paris.  I  was  not.  Something  told 
me  that  that  Parisian  missive  from  the  rue  Jean- 
Jacques,  dropping  thus  upon  my  table  unexpect- 
edly, and  so  early  in  the  morning,  would  make  me 
lose  my  whole  day.  I  was  not  mistaken,  —  and 
you  shall  see  why. 

"  You  must  do  me  a  service,  my  friend,"  said 
the  letter.  "  Close  your  mill  for  a  day,  and  go  to 
Eyguieres.  Eyguieres  is  a  large  village,  three  or 
four  leagues  from  your  mill,  —  a  pleasant  walk. 
When  you  get  there,  ask  for  the  Orphans'  Con- 
vent. The  first  house  beyond  the  convent  is  a 
low  building  with  gray  shutters,  and  a  small  garden 
behind  it.  Enter  without  knocking,  —  the  door  is 
always  open,  —  and  as  you  enter,  call  out  very 
loud :  '  Good-day,  worthy  people  !  I  am  a  friend 
of  Maurice.'  On  which  you  will  see  two  little  old 
persons  —  oh  !  but  old,  old,  ever  so  old  —  stretch- 
ing out  their  hands  to  you  from  their  big  arm- 
chairs ;  and  you  are  to  kiss  them  for  me,  with  all 
your  heart,  as  if  they  were  yours,  your  own  friends. 
Then  you  will  talk.     They  will  talk  to  you  of  me, 


Aged  Folk  87 

and  nothing  else;  they  will  say  a  lot  of  foolish 
things,  which  you  are  to  listen  to  without  laughing. 
You  won't  laugh,  will  you?  They  are  my  grand- 
parents; two  beings  whose  very  life  I  am,  and 
who  have  not  seen  me  these  ten  years.  .  .  Ten 
years,  a  long  time !  But  how  can  I  help  it?  Paris 
clutches  me.  And  they,  they  are  so  old  that  if 
they  came  to  see  me  they  would  break  to  bits  on 
the  way.  .  .  Happily,  you  are  there,  my  dear 
miller,  and,  in  kissing  you,  these  poor  old  people 
will  fancy  they  are  kissing  me.  I  have  so  often 
told  them  about  you,  and  of  the  good  friendship 
that—" 

The  devil  take  good  friendship  !  Just  this  very 
morning,  when  the  weather  is  so  beautiful !  but  not 
at  all  fit  to  tramp  along  the  roads ;  too  much  mis- 
tral, too  much  sun,  a  regular  Provence  day.  When 
that  cursed  letter  came,  I  had  just  picked  out  my 
shelter  between  two  rocks,  where  I  dreamed  of 
staying  all  day  like  a  lizard,  drinking  light  and 
listening  to  the  song  of  the  pines.  Well,  I  could  not 
help  myself.  I  shut  up  the  mill,  grumbling,  and  hid 
the  key.     My  stick,  my  pipe,  and  off  I  went.  \ 

I  reached  Eyguieres  in  about  two  hours.  The 
village  was  deserted  ;  everybody  was  in  the  fields. 
From  the  elms  in  the  courtyards,  white  with  dust, 
the  grasshoppers  were  screaming.  To  be  sure,  in 
the  square  before  the  mayor's  office,  a  donkey  was 
sunning  himself,  and  a  flock  of  pigeons  were  dab- 
bling in  the  fountain  before  the  church,  but  no  one 
able  to  show  me  the  Orphans'  Convent.     Happily, 


88  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

an  old  witch  suddenly  appeared,  crouching  and 
knitting  in  the  angle  of  her  doorway.  I  told  her 
what  I  was  looking  for ;  and  as  she  was  a  witch  of 
very  great  power,  she  had  only  to  raise  her  distaff, 
and,  behold !  the  Orphans'  Convent  rose  up  before 
me.  It  was  a  large,  sullen,  black  house,  proud  of 
exhibiting  above  its  arched  portal  an  old  cross  of 
red  freestone  with  Latin  around  it.  Beside  this 
house,  I  saw  another,  very  small;  gray  shutters, 
garden  behind  it.  I  knew  it  directly,  and  I  entered 
without  knocking. 

All  my  life  I  shall  remember  that  long,  cool, 
quiet  corridor,  the  walls  rose-tinted,  the  little  gar- 
den quivering  at  the  other  end,  and  seen  through  a 
thin  blind.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  entering 
the  house  of  some  old  bailiff  of  the  olden  time  of 
Sedaine.  At  the  end  of  the  passage,  on  the  left, 
through  a  half-opened  door,  I  heard  the  tick-tack 
of  a  large  clock  and  the  voice  of  a  child  —  a  child 
in  school  —  who  was  reading  aloud,  and  paus- 
ing at  each  syllable:  "Then — Saint — I-re-ne-us 
—  cri-ed  —  out — I — am  —  the  —  wheat —  of —  the 
Lord — I — must —  be  — ground  — -by  —  the  —  teeth 
— of — these— an-i-mals."  I  softly  approached  the 
door  and  looked  in. 

In  the  quiet  half-light  of  a  little  room,  an  old, 
old  man  with  rosy  cheeks,  wrinkled  to  the  tips  of 
his  fingers,  sat  sleeping  in  a  chair,  his  mouth  open, 
his  hands  on  his  knees.  At  his  feet,  a  little  girl 
dressed  in  blue  —  with  a  great  cape  and  a  linen 
cap,  the  orphans'  costume — was  reading  the  life 
of  Saint  Irenaeus  in  a  book  that  was  bigger  than 


Aged  Folk.  89 

herself.  The  reading  had  operated  miraculously 
on  the  entire  household.  The  old  man  slept  in 
his  chair,  the  flies  on  the  ceiling,  the  canaries  in 
their  cage  at  the  window,  and  the  great  clock 
snored :  tick-tack,  tick-tack.  Nothing  was  awake 
in  the  room  but  a  broad  band  of  light,  which  came, 
straight  and  white,  between  the  closed  shutters,  full 
of  lively  sparkles  and  microscopic  whirlings. 

Amid  this  general  somnolence,  the  child  went 
gravely  on  with  her  reading :  — 

"  Im-me-di-ate-ly — two — li-ons — dart-ed — up- 
on— him — and — ate — him — up."  At  this  moment 
I  entered  the  room.  The  lions  of  Saint  Irenaeus 
darting  into  the  room  could  not  have  produced 
greater  stupefaction.  A  regular  stage  effect !  The 
little  one  gave  a  cry,  the  big  book  fell,  the  flies 
and  the  canaries  woke,  the  clock  struck,  the  old 
man  started  up,  quite  frightened,  and  I  myself, 
being  rather  troubled,  stopped  short  on  the  sill  of 
the  door,  and  called  out  very  loud :  "  Good-day, 
worthy  people  !     I  am  Maurice's  friend." 

Oh,  then !  if  you  had  only  seen  him,  that  old 
man,  if  you  had  only  seen  how  he  came  to  me  with 
outstretched  arms,  embracing  me,  pressing  my 
hands,  and  wandering  about  the  room,  crying 
out:  — 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu  !  " 

All  the  wrinkles  of  his  face  were  laughing.  He 
was  red.     He  stuttered  :  — 

"  Ah !  monsieur  —  ah  !  monsieur." 

Then  he  went  to  the  back  of  the  room  and 
called :  — 


90  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"  Mamette ! " 

A  door  opened,  a  trot  of  mice  in  the  corridor — it 
was  Mamette.  Nothing  prettier  than  that  little  old 
woman  with  her  mob-cap,  her  brown  gown,  and  the 
embroidered  handkerchief  which  she  held  in  her 
hand  in  the  olden  fashion.  Most  affecting  thing ! 
the  two  were  like  each  other.  With  a  false  front 
and  yellow  bows  to  his  cap,  he  too  might  be  called 
Mamette.  Only,  the  real  Mamette  must  have  wept 
a  great  deal  in  her  life,  for  she  was  even  more 
wrinkled  than  he.  Like  him,  she  too  had  an  or- 
phan with  her,  a  little  nurse  in  a  blue  cape  who 
never  left  her ;  and  to  see  these  old  people  pro- 
tected by  those  orphans  was  indeed  the  most 
touching  thing  you  can  imagine. 

On  entering,  Mamette  began  to  make  me  a  deep 
curtsey,  but  a  word  of  the  old  man  stopped  her  in 
the  middle  of  it:  — 

"  A  friend  of  Maurice." 

Instantly  she  trembled,  she  wept,  dropped  her 
handkerchief,  grew  red,  very  red,  redder  than  he. 
Those  aged  folk !  who  have  hardly  a  drop  of 
blood  in  their  veins,  how  it  flies  to  their  face  at 
the  least  emotion ! 

"  Quick,  quick,  a  chair,"  said  the  old  lady  to  her 
little  girl. 

"  Open  the  shutters,"  said  the  old  man  to  his. 

Then  taking  me  each  by  a  hand  they  led  me, 
trotting  along,  to  the  window  the  better  to  see  me. 
The  armchairs  were  placed ;  I  sat  between  the  two 
on  a  stool,  the  little  Blues  behind  us,  and  the  ques- 
tioning began : — 


Aged  Folk.  91 

"  How  is  he  ?  What  is  he  doing?  Why  does  n't 
he  come?     Is  he  happy?" 

Patati,  patata  !   and  so  on  for  two  hours. 

I  answered  as  best  I  could  all  their  ques- 
tions, giving  such  details  about  my  friend  as 
I  knew,  and  boldly  inventing  others  that  I  did 
not  know;  being  careful  to  avoid  admitting  that 
I  had  never  noticed  whether  his  windows  closed 
tightly  and  what  coloured  paper  he  had  on  his 
walls. 

"The  paper  of  his  bedroom?  blue,  madame,  light 
blue,  with  garlands  of  flowers  —  " 

"  Really !  "  said  the  old  lady,  much  affected ; 
then  she  added,  turning  to  her  husband :  "  He  is 
such  a  dear  lad  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  a  dear  lad !  "  said  the  other,  with 
enthusiasm. 

And  all  the  time  that  I  was  speaking  they  kept 
up  between  them  little  nods,  and  sly  laughs  and 
winks,  and  knowing  looks;  or  else  the  old  man 
came  closer  to  say  in  my  ear :  — 

"  Speak  louder,  she  is  a  little  hard  of  hearing." 

And  she  on  her  side  :  — 

"  A  little  louder,  if  you  please.  He  does  n't  hear 
very  well." 

Then  I  raised  my  voice,  and  both  of  them 
thanked  me  with  a  smile ;  and  in  those  faded 
smiles,  —  bending  toward  me,  seeking  in  the  depths 
of  my  eyes  the  image  of  their  Maurice,  —  I  was, 
myself,  quite  moved  to  see  that  image,  vague, 
veiled,  almost  imperceptible,  as  if  I  beheld  my 
friend  smiling  to   me   from  afar   through   a  mist 


92  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  sat  upright  in  his  chair. 

"  I  have  just  thought,  Mamette,  —  perhaps  he 
has  not  breakfasted  !  " 

And  Mamette,  distressed,  throws  up  her  arms. 

"  Not  breakfasted  !   oh,  heavens  !  " 

I  thought  they  were  still  talking  of  Maurice,  and 
I  was  about  to  say  that  that  worthy  lad  never 
waited  later  than  noon  for  his  breakfast.  But  no, 
it  was  of  me  they  were  thinking;  and  it  was  in- 
deed a  sight  to  see  their  commotion  when  I  had  to 
own  that  I  was  still  fasting. 

"  Quick  !  set  the  table,  little  Blues !  That  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  —  the  Sunday  cloth  — 
the  flowered  plates.  And  no  laughing,  if  you 
please  !     Make  haste,  make  haste  !  " 

And  haste  they  made.  Only  time  to  break 
*hree  plates  and  breakfast  was  served. 

"A  good  little  breakfast,"  said  Mamette,  leading 
me  to  the  table ;  "  only,  you  must  eat  it  alone.  We 
have  eaten  already." 

Poor  old  people !  at  whatever  hour  you  took 
them,  they  had  "  eaten  already." 

Mamette's  good  little  breakfast  was  a  cup  of 
milk,  dates,  and  a  barquette,  a  kind  of  shortcake, 
no  doubt  enough  to  feed  her  canaries  for  a  week ; 
and  to  think  that  I,  alone,  I  ate  up  all  their  provi- 
sions !  I  felt  the  indignation  around  the  table ;  the 
little  Blues  whispered  and  nudged  each  other ;  and 
those  canaries  in  their  cage,  —  I  knew  they  were 
saying :  "  Oh !  that  monsieur,  he  is  eating  up  the 
whole  of  the  barquette!  " 

I  did  eat  it  all,  truly,  almost  without  perceiving 


Aged  Folk.  93 

that  I  did  so,  preoccupied  as  I  was  by  looking 
round  that  light  and  placid  room,  where  floated, 
as  it  were,  the  fragrance  of  things  ancient.  Espe^ 
cially  noticeable  were  two  little  beds  from  which  I 
could  not  detach  my  eyes.  Those  beds,  almost 
two  cradles,  I  pictured  them  in  the  morning  at 
dawn,  still  inclosed  within  their  great  fringed  cur- 
tains. Three  o  'clock  strikes.  That  is  the  hour 
when  old  people  wake. 

"Are  you  asleep,  Mamette?" 

"  No,  my  friend." 

"  Is  n't  Maurice  a  fine  lad?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  a  fine  lad." 

And  from  that  I  imagined  a  long  conversation 
by  merely  looking  at  the  little  beds  of  the  two  old 
people,  standing  side  by  side.    . 

During  this  time  a  terrible  drama  was  going  on 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room  before  a  closet.  It 
concerned  reaching  up  to  the  top  shelf  for  a  cer- 
tain bottle  of  brandied  cherries  which  had  awaited 
Maurice's  return  for  the  last  ten  years.  The  old 
people  now  proposed  to  open  it  for  me.  In  spite 
of  Mamette's  supplications  the  husband  was  deter- 
mined to  get  the  cherries  himself,  and,  mounted  on 
a  chair  to  the  terror  of  his  wife,  he  was  striving  to 
reach  them.  You  can  see  the  scene  from  here: 
the  old  man  trembling  on  the  points  of  his  toes,  the 
little  Blues  clinging  to  his  chair,  Mamette  behind 
him,  breathless,  her  arms  extended,  and,  pervading 
all,  a  slight  perfume  of  bergamot  exhaled  from  the 
open  closet  and  the  great  piles  of  unbleached  linen 
therein  contained.     It  was  charming. 


94  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

At  last,  after  many  efforts,  they  succeeded  in 
getting  it  from  the  closet,  that  famous  bottle,  and 
with  it  an  old  silver  cup,  Maurice's  cup  when  he 
was  little.  This  they  filled  with  cherries  to  the 
brim  —  Maurice  was  so  fond  of  cherries !  And 
while  the  old  man  served  me,  he  whispered  in  my 
ear,  as  if  his  mouth  watered :  — 

"You  are  very  lucky,  you,  to  be  the  one  to  eat 
them.  My  wife  put  them  up.  You  '11  taste  some- 
thing good." 

Alas !  his  wife  had  put  them  up,  but  she  had 
forgotten  to  sweeten  them.  They  were  atrocious, 
your  cherries,  my  poor  Mamette — But  that  did 
not  prevent  me  from  eating  them  all  without 
blinking. 

The  meal  over,  I  rose  to  take  leave  of  my 
hosts.  They  would  fain  have  kept  me  longer  to 
talk  of  that  dear  lad,  but  the  day  was  shortening, 
the  mill  was  far,  and  I  had  to  go. 

The  old  man  rose  when  I  did. 

"  Mamette,  my  coat ;  I  will  accompany  him  as 
far  as  the  square." 

I  felt  very  sure  that  in  her  heart  Mamette 
thought  it  too  cool  for  the  old  man  to  be  out,  but 
she  did  not  show  it.  Only,  as  she  helped  him  to 
put  his  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  a  hand- 
some snuff-coloured  coat  with  mother-of-pearl  but- 
tons, I  heard  the  dear  creature  say  to  him  softly :  — 

*  You  won't  be  late,  will  you  ?  " 

And  he,  with  a  roguish  air :  — 

"  Hey !  hey !     I  don't  know  —  perhaps  not." 


Aged  Folk.  95 

Thereupon  they  looked  at  each  other,  laugh- 
ing, and  the  little  Blues  laughed  to  see  them  laugh, 
and  the  canaries  laughed  too,  in  their  cage,  after 
their  fashion.  Between  ourselves  I  think  the  smell 
of  those  cherries  had  made  them  all  a  little  tipsy. 

Daylight  was  fading  as  we  left  the  house,  . 
papa  and  I.  A  little  Blue  followed  at  a  distant 
to  bring  him  back;  but  he  did  not  see  her,  and 
seemed  quite  proud  to  walk  along,  arm  in  arm 
with  me,  like  a  man.  Mamette,  beaming,  watched 
us  from  the  sill  of  her  door  with  pretty  little  nods 
of  her  head  that  seemed  to  say :  "  See  there  !  my 
poor  man,  he  can  still  walk  about." 


96  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


PROSE  BALLADS. 

When  I  opened  my  door  this  morning  I  saw 
around  my  mill  a  carpet  of  hoar-frost.  The  turf 
cracked  and  glittered  like  glass;  the  hillside 
shivered.  For  a  single  day  my  dear  Provence 
disguised  herself  as  a  Northern  land ;  and  it  was 
among  pines  draped  with  frost  and  tufts  of  laven- 
der looking  like  crystal  bouquets  that  I  wrote  two 
ballads  of  rather  Germanic  fantasy,  while  the  ice- 
dew  sparkled  before  me,  and  away  up  there  in  the 
clear  blue  sky  triangular  flocks  of  storks,  coming 
from  the  country  of  Henri  Heine,  flew  towards 
the  Camargue,  crying  hoarsely :  "  It  is  cold  —  cold 
—  cold." 

I. 

THE   DEATH   OF  THE  DAUPHIN. 

The  little  Dauphin  is  ill ;  the  little  Dauphin  will 
die.  In  all  the  churches  of  the  kingdom  the  Holy 
Sacrament  is  exposed  day  and  night,  and  great 
tapers  burn  for  the  recovery  of  the  royal  child. 
The  streets  of  the  old  Residenz  are  sad  and  silent; 
the  bells  no  longer  ring;  carriages  are  driven  at 
a  foot-pace.  Around  the  palace  anxious  burghers 
watch,  through  the  iron  railings,  the  Swiss  porters 


Prose  Ballads.  97 

with  gilded  paunches  talking  in  the  courtyard  with 
airs  of  importance. 

The  whole  castle  is  a-quiver.  Chamberlains, 
majordomos  are  running  up  and  down  the  marble 
staircases.  The  galleries  are  filled  with  pages 
and  courtiers  in  silken  garments  going  from  one 
group  to  another,  asking  for  news  in  whispers.  On 
the  wide  porticos  ladies  of  honour  in  despair  are 
dropping  deep  curtseys  to  one  another  and  wiping 
their  eyes  with  embroidered  handkerchiefs. 

In  the  Orangery  is  a  numerous  assemblage  of 
physicians  in  their  robes.  They  are  seen  through 
the  sashes  to  shake  their  long  black  sleeves  and 
lean  their  clubbed  wigs  doctorally  to  one  another. 
The  preceptor  and  the  equerry  of  the  little  Dau- 
phin are  pacing  up  and  down  before  the  door 
awaiting  the  decision  of  the  Faculty.  Scullions 
pass  them  without  bowing.  The  equerry  swears 
like  a  pagan  ;  the  preceptor  recites  Horace.  And 
all  this  while,  from  the  stables  over  there,  comes 
a  plaintive  neigh.  T  is  the  chestnut  pony  of  the 
little  Dauphin,  forgotten  by  the  grooms,  which  is 
whinnying  sadly  before  its  empty  manger. 

And  the  king?  Where  is  Monseigneur  the 
king?  The  king  is  shut  up  all  alone  in  a  room 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  castle.  Majesties  do  not 
like  to  be  seen  to  weep.  As  for  the  queen,  that 
is  another  thing.  Seated  by  the  pillow  of  the 
little  Dauphin,  her  beautiful  face  is  bathed  in  tears, 
and  she  sobs  aloud  as  any  shopkeeper's  wife 
might  do. 

Among  the  laces  of  his  couch  the  little  Dauphin, 
7 


98  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

whiter  than  the  pillows  on  which  he  lies,  is  resting, 
his  eyes  closed.  They  think  he  sleeps.  But  no, 
the  little  Dauphin  is  not  asleep.  He  turns  to  his 
mother,  and  seeing  her  tears,  he  says  to  her :  — 

"  Madame  la  reine,  why  do  you  weep?  Do  you 
really  think  I  am  going  to  die?" 

The  queen  tries  to  answer.  Sobs  prevent  her 
from  speaking. 

"Do  not  weep,  Madame  la  reine ;  you  forget 
that  I  am  the  Dauphin,  and  that  Dauphins  can- 
not die  in  this  way." 

The  queen  sobs  more  than  ever,  and  the  little 
Dauphin  begins  to  be  frightened. 

"  Hola !  "  he  said,  "  I  will  not  let  Death  take 
me ;  I  will  find  a  way  to  keep  him  out.  Send, 
at  once,  for  forty  of  my  soldiers,  the  strongest 
men ;  let  them  mount  guard  around  my  bed.  Let 
a  hundred  cannon  be  ready,  day  and  night,  with 
lighted  matches,  beneath  my  windows,  and  sorrow 
to  Death  if  then  he  dare  approach  me !  " 

To  please  the  royal  child  the  queen  made  signs. 
Cannon  were  heard  to  roll  into  the  courtyard,  and 
the  forty  tallest  soldiers,  halberds  in  hand,  stood 
ranged  around  the  room.  They  were  all  old  vet- 
erans, with  gray  moustaches.  The  Dauphin  clapped 
his  hands  on  seeing  them.  One  he  recognized, 
and  called  to  him :  — 

"Lorrain  !  Lorrain  !  " 

The  soldier  advanced  toward  the  bed. 

"  I  love  you,  my  old  Lorrain.  Show  me  your 
big  sabre.  If  Death  comes  here  to  take  me,  you 
must  kill  him  —  won't  you?" 


Prose  Ballads.  99 

Lorrain  replied :  — 

"  Yes,  monseigneur." 

But  two  big  tears  rolled  down  his  weather- 
beaten  cheeks. 

At  this  moment  the  chaplain  approached  the 
little  Dauphin,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  voice, 
showing  him  a  crucifix.  The  little  Dauphin  listened 
with  a  surprised  air;  then,  suddenly  interrupting 
the  priest,  he  said :  — 

"  I  understand  very  well  what  you  are  saying, 
Monsieur  Vabbe  ;  but,  after  all,  could  not  my  little 
friend  Beppo  die  in  my  place  if  I  gave  him  plenty 
of  money?  " 

The  chaplain  continued  to  speak  in  a  low  voice, 
and  the  little  Dauphin  seemed  more  and  more 
astonished. 

When  the  chaplain  had  finished,  the  little  Dau- 
phin said,  with  a  heavy  sigh:  — 

"  All  that  you  tell  me  is  very  sad,  Monsieur  Vabbe'y 
but  one  thing  comforts  me ;  it  is  that  up  there,  in 
the  paradise  of  stars,  I  shall  still  be  the  Dauphin. 
I  know  that  the  Good  God  is  my  cousin,  and  he 
will  not  fail  to  treat  me  according  to  my  rank." 

Then  he  added,  turning  to  his  mother :  — 

"  Tell  them  to  bring  me  my  finest  clothes,  my 
ermine  mantle,  and  my  velvet  shoes.  I  wish  to 
make  myself  gorgeous  for  the  angels  and  to  enter 
paradise  as  the  Dauphin  should." 

Again,  for  the  third  time,  the  chaplain  leaned 
down  to  the  little  Dauphin  and  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  voice.  Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  his  discourse 
the  royal  child  interrupted  him  angrily :  — 


ioo  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"  Then  to  be  Dauphin,"  he  cried,  "  is  just  noth- 
ing at  all !  " 

And  —  not  willing  to  hear  another  word  —  the 
little  Dauphin  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  wept 
bitterly. 


II. 

THE  SUB-PREFECT  IN  THE  FIELDS. 

The  sub-prefect  is  on  his  rounds.  Coachman 
before,  footman  behind,  the  caleche  of  the  sub- 
prefecture  bears  him  majestically  to  the  district 
assembly  of  Combe-aux-F6es.  For  this  memo- 
rable journey  the  sub-prefect  has  put  on  his  fine 
embroidered  coat,  his  little  opera-hat,  his  tight 
breeches  that  are  silver-striped,  and  his  gala  sword 
with  a  mother-of-pearl  handle.  On  his  knees  re- 
poses a  great  portfolio  of  crinkled  leather,  at  which 
he  gazes  sadly. 

The  sub-prefect  gazes  sadly  at  his  leather  case ; 
he  thinks  of  the  famous  speech  he  is  about  to  de- 
liver before  the  inhabitants  of  Combe-aux-Fees :  — 
"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents  —  " 
But  in  vain  does  he  twist  the  silk  of  his  blond 
moustache  and  repeat  a  score  of  times :  — 
"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents  — " 
Not  another  word  will  come.     It  is  so  hot  in 
that  caleche.     The  high-road  to  Combe-aux-F6es 
stretches  dustily  as  far  as  eye  can  reach  beneath 
that  Southern  sun.     The  air  is  like  a  furnace ;   on 
the  elms,  white  with  dust,  that  line  the  road,  thou- 


Prose  Ballads.  101 

sands  of  grasshoppers  are  discoursing  shrilly  from 
one  tree  to  another.  Suddenly  the  sub-prefect 
quivers.  Over  there,  at  the  foot  of  a  slope,  he 
perceives  a  little  wood  of  live-oaks  which  seems  to 
be  making  him  a  sign. 

The  little  wood  of  live-oaks  seems  to  be  making 
him  a  sign  :  — 

u  Come  this  way,  monsieur,  come  this  way  to 
compose  your  speech;  you  will  be  much  more 
comfortable  under  my  trees." 

The  sub-prefect  is  persuaded.  He  jumps  from 
his  caleche  and  tells  his  servants  to  wait  for  him ; 
he  is  going  to  compose  his  speech  in  the  little 
wood  of  live-oaks. 

In  the  little  wood  of  live-oaks  there  are  birds 
and  violets,  and  brooks  purling  through  the  turf. 
When  the  birds  caught  sight  of  the  prefect  in  his 
handsome  breeches  carrying  his  leather  case  they 
were  frightened  and  stopped  singing,  the  brooks 
dared  not  purl,  and  the  violets  hid  in  the  grass. 
All  that  little  world  had  never  seen  a  sub-prefect, 
and  they  asked  one  another  in  whispers  who  the 
grand  gentleman  could  be  who  walked  about  in 
silver-laced  breeches. 

Whispering  beneath  the  leafage,  they  asked  one 
another  who  that  grand  gentleman  in  the  silver- 
laced  breeches  could  be.  During  this  time  the 
sub-prefect,  delighted  with  the  silence  and  the 
coolness  of  the  wood,  lifted  the  tails  of  his  coat, 
laid  his  opera-hat  on  the  grass,  and  sat  himself 
down  in  the  moss  at  the  foot  of  a  fine  young  live- 
oak.     Then  he  opened  his  leather  portfolio   and 


1O2  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

took  therefrom  a  very  large  sheet  of  ministerial 
paper. 

"  He  is  an  artist,"  said  a  redwing. 

"  No,"  said  a  bullfinch,  "  he  is  not  an  artist  be- 
cause he  wears  silvered  breeches ;  he  is  a  prince." 

"  Neither  prince  nor  artist,"  interrupted  an  old 
nightingale  who  had  sung  in  the  gardens  of  the 
sub-prefecture  for  one  whole  season.  "  I  know 
who  he  is  —  he  is  a  sub-prefect." 

And  all  the  little  wood  began  to  whisper  and 
murmur:  — 

"  He  's  a  sub-prefect !  he'sa  sub-prefect !  " 

"  How  bald  he  is ! "  observed  a  lark  with  a  big 
tuft. 

The  violets  asked :  — 

"  Is  he  cross  ?  " 

"  Is  he  cross?  "  asked  the  violets. 

The  nightingale  answered :  — 

"  Not  at  all." 

On  this  assurance  the  birds  began  to  sing,  the 
brooks  to  purl,  the  violets  to  exhale  their  fragrance 
just  as  if  the  monsieur  were  not  there. 

Impassible  in  the  midst  of  the  pretty  racket, 
the  sub-prefect  sat  invoking  in  his  heart  the 
Muse  of  agricultural  comitias,  and  he  presently 
began,  with  pencil  uplifted,  to  declaim  his  speech 
in  his  voice  of  ceremony. 

"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents  —  " 

"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents,"  said  the  sub* 
prefect,  in  his  voice  of  ceremony. 

A  burst  of  laughter  interrupted  him ;  he  turned 
round  and  saw  nothing  but  a  green  woodpecker, 


Prose  Ballads.  103 

perched  on  his  opera-hat,  which  looked  at  him 
smiling.  The  sub-prefect  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  attempted  to  resume  his  speech;  but  the 
woodpecker  stopped  him  again,  crying  out :  — 

"  What 's  the  good  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  good  ?  "  said  the  sub-prefect,  be- 
coming very  red.  Then  waving  away  with  a 
gesture  that  insolent  beast,  he  began  once 
more :  — 

"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents  —  " 

"  Messieurs,  and  dear  constituents,"  resumed  the 
sub-prefect. 

But  just  then,  all  the  little  violets  raised  their 
heads  to  the  tops  of  their  stalks  and  said  to  him 
softly :  — 

"  Monsieur,  do  smell  how  good  we  smell." 

And  the  brooks  purled  a  music  divine  in  the 
mosses ;  and  above,  in  the  branches  over  his  head, 
the  red-throated  warblers  were  singing  their  pretti- 
est tunes,  as  if  the  whole  little  wood  had  conspired 
to  prevent  him  from  composing  his  speech. 

Yes,  the  whole  little  wood  had  conspired  to 
prevent  him  from  composing  his  speech.  The 
sub-prefect,  tipsy  with  perfume  and  drunk  with 
music,  tried  in  vain  to  resist  the  new  spell  that 
seized  him.  He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  grass, 
unbuttoned  his  fine  lace  coat,  and  stammered  again 
two  or  three  times :  — 

"  Messieurs,  and  dear  —  " 

Then  he  sent  his  dear  constituents  to  the  devil, 
and  the  Muse  of  agricultural  comitias  was  forced 
to  veil  her  face. 


104  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Veil  thy  face,  O  Muse  of  agricultural  comitias ! 
When  at  the  end  of  an  hour  the  servants  of  the 
sub-prefecture,  uneasy  about  their  master,  entered 
the  little  wood,  they  saw  a  sight  that  caused  them 
to  recoil  with  horror.  The  sub-prefect  was  lying 
on  his  stomach  in  the  grass,  his  clothes  loose,  his 
coat  off,  as  disorderly  as  a  bohemian,  and  —  all 
the  while  chewing  violets  —  he,  the  sub-prefect, 
was  writing  poetry ! 


Bixiou  s  Portfolio.  105 


BIXIOU'S  PORTFOLIO. 

ONE  morning  in  the  month  of  October,  a  few 
days  before  leaving  Paris,  a  man  entered  my  room 
while  I  was  at  breakfast,  an  old  man  in  a  shabby, 
muddy  coat,  his  spine  bent,  and  trembling  on  his 
long  legs  like  an  unfledged  heron.  This  was 
Bixiou.  Yes,  Parisians,  your  Bixiou,  the  malicious, 
fascinating  Bixiou, — that  frantic  jester,  who  de- 
lighted you  for  fifteen  years  with  his  pamphlets  and 
his  caricatures.  Ah  !  the  poor  fellow,  what  distress  ! 
Were  it  not  for  a  grimace  he  made  as  he  entered 
the  room  I  should  never  have  recognized  him. 

With  his  head  bent  sideways  to  his  shoulder,  a 
cane  at  his  teeth  like  a  flute,  the  illustrious  and 
lugubrious  jester  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the 
room,  striking  against  my  table,  and  saying  in  a 
doleful  voice:  — 

"  Have  pity  on  a  poor  blind  man !  " 

The  mimicry  was  so  good  that  I  could  not  help 
laughing.     But  he,  very  coldly :  — 

"  You  think  I  am  joking  —  look  !  " 

And  he  turned  to  me  a  pair  of  white  eyes, 
sightless. 

"  I  am  blind,  my  dear  fellow,  blind  for  life. 
That  is  what  comes  of  writing  with  vitriol.  I 
have  burned   out  my  eyes  at  that  pretty  trade, 


106  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

yes,  burned  them  to  the  socket  —  to  the 
bobhhes ! "  he  added,  showing  me  his  calcined 
eyelids,  in  which  not  the  vestige  of  a  lash  re- 
mained. 

I  was  so  moved  that  I  could  not  speak  to  him. 
My  silence  made  him  uneasy. 

"  Are  you  at  work?  " 

"  No,  Bixiou,  I  am  at  breakfast.  Will  you  have 
some?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  by  the  quivering  of  his 
nostrils  I  saw  his  desire  to  accept.  I  took  him  by 
the  hand  and  seated  him  beside  me. 

While  they  served  him,  the  poor  devil  breathed 
in,  as  it  were,  the  food  with  a  laugh. 

"  It  smells  good,  all  that.  I  shall  feast  well ;  it  is 
so  long  since  I  gave  up  breakfasting.  A  two-sous 
loaf  every  morning  while  I  haunt  the  ministries, — 
for  you  know  I  haunt  the  ministries  now-a-days ; 
that  's  my  only  profession.  I  am  trying  to  hook 
a  tobacco  license.  You  are  shocked,  but  what  am 
I  to  do  ?  They  must  have  food  at  home.  I  can't 
design  any  longer;  I  can't  write.  Dictate?  But 
what?  I  have  nothing  in  my  head  now;  I  can't 
invent.  My  business  was  to  see  the  grimaces  of 
Paris  and  show  them  up,  and  I  can't  do  that  any 
longer.  So  I  bethought  me  of  a  tobacco  license  — 
not  on  the  boulevards,  you  understand.  I  have 
no  claim  to  that  favour,  not  being  the  mother  of 
a  danseuse,  nor  the  widow  of  an  officer.  No, 
simply  some  little  provincial  tobacco  office,  far 
away,  in  a  corner  of  the  Vosges.  There  I  shall 
set  up  a  big  porcelain  pipe  and  call  myself  Hans 


Bixious  Portfolio.  107 

or  Zeb6d£,  as  in  Erckmann-Chatrian,  and  I  shall 
console  myself  for  not  writing  any  longer  by  mak- 
ing cornucopias  for  snuff  out  of  the  works  of  my 
contemporaries. 

"That  is  all  I  ask  for.  Not  much,  is  it?  Well, 
it  is  the  devil  and  all  to  get  it.  And  yet  I  ought 
not  to  be  without  influence.  Think  how  I  used 
to  be  in  the  thick  of  everything !  I  dined  with 
the  marshal,  and  the  prince,  and  the  ministers ;  all 
those  people  wanted  me  because  I  amused  them, 
or  else  because  they  were  afraid  of  me.  Now,  I 
can't  make  any  one  afraid.  Oh,  my  eyes  !  my  poor 
eyes !  No  one  invites  me  now.  It  is  too  dismal 
to  have  a  blind  head  at  table.  Pass  me  the  bread, 
if  you  please.  Ah  !  those  bandits ;  they  are  mak- 
ing me  pay  dear  for  that  wretched  tobacco  license. 
For  six  months  I  have  lobbied  the  ministries  with 
my  petition.  I  get  there  every  morning  when  the 
servants  are  lighting  the  fires  and  exercising  their 
Excellencies'  horses  in  the  courtyards,  and  I  don't 
leave  till  night,  when  the  lamps  are  brought  in  and  the 
kitchens  begin  to  smell  good.  My  whole  life  is  spent 
on  the  wooden  chests  of  antechambers.  The  ushers 
know  me  well,  I  can  tell  you  !  At  the  Interior 
they  call  me  '  That  kind  monsieur !  '  because, 
to  get  their  good  word,  I  make  puns  or  sketch 
them  some  of  the  big-wigs  on  a  corner  of  their 
tablets,  which  makes  them  laugh.  That 's  what  I  've 
come  to  after  twenty  years  of  rollicking  successes  ! 
that's  the  end  of  an  artist's  life.  And  to  think 
that  there  are  forty  thousand  young  rascals  in 
France  whose  very  mouths  water  to  take  up  that 


108  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

profession  !  To  think  that  every  day  in  the  prov- 
inces a  locomotive  gets  up  steam  to  bring  batches 
of  imbeciles  hungry  for  literature  and  printed  rub- 
bish to  Paris  !  Ah  !  deluded  provinces,  if  Bixiou's 
miserable  fate  could  only  teach  you  a  lesson !  " 

So  saying,  he  dropped  his  nose  into  his  plate  and 
began  to  eat  with  avidity,  without  another  word. 
It  was  piteous  to  see  him.  Every  second  he 
lost  his  bread,  his  fork,  and  felt  about  for  his 
glass.  Poor  man  !  he  had  not  yet  got  the  habit  of 
blindness. 

After  a  while,  he  resumed  :  — 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  most  horrible  of  all  to 
me?  It  is  that  I  can  no  longer  read  the  papers. 
You  have  to  belong  to  the  newspaper  business  to 
understand  that.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening  when 
I  go  home  I  buy  one,  only  to  smell  that  odour  of 
damp  paper  and  fresh  news.  It  is  so  good  !  but 
there  's  no  one  to  read  it  to  me.  My  wife  might, 
but  she  won't ;  she  pretends  that  in  the  '  diverse 
facts '  there  is  so  much  that  is  improper.  Ha ! 
those  former  mistresses !  once  married,  there  are 
none  more  prudish  than  they.  Ever  since  I  made 
her  Madame  Bixiou  she  thinks  herself  bound  to 
be  a  bigot  —  and  to  such  a  point !  Did  n't  she 
want  to  have  me  wash  my  eyes  with  water  from 
the  Salette?  and  then,  holy  bread,  and  holy  water, 
and  collections,  and  Foundlings  and  Chinese  orphans 
and  I  don't  know  what  all.  We  are  in  good  works 
up  to  our  chin.  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  work 
to  read  me  my  newspaper,  but  no,  she  won't.     If 


Bixioits  Portfolio.  log 

my  daughter  were  at  home  she  would  read  it  to 
me,  but  after  I  became  blind  I  sent  her  to  Notre- 
Dame-des-Arts,  to  have  one  less  mouth  to  feed. 
She 's  another  who  gives  me  comfort !  not  nine 
years  in  the  world,  and  she  has  had  every  known 
disease !  And  sad !  and  ugly !  uglier  than  I,  if 
that 's  possible  —  a  fright !  Well,  I  never  could 
make  anything  but  caricatures,  and  she  is  one  of 
them  —  Ah  ca  !  I 'm  a  fine  fellow  to  be  telling 
you  my  family  histories.  What  are  they  to  you? 
Come,  give  me  a  little  more  of  that  brandy. 
I  must  brace  myself  up ;  I  am  going  from  here  to 
the  ministry  of  Public  Instruction,  and  the  ushers 
there  are  not  so  easy  as  some  to  amuse  —  they  are 
all  retired  professors." 

I  poured  him  out  his  brandy.  He  began  to 
drink  it  with  little  sips  and  a  gentler  air.  Pres- 
ently I  don't  know  what  fancy  took  him,  but  he 
rose,  glass  in  hand,  turned  on  all  sides  that  head 
of  a  blind  adder,  with  the  cajoling  smile  of  a  man 
about  to  speak,  and  said,  in  a  strident  voice,  as  if 
haranguing  a  banquet  of  two  hundred  guests :  — 

"  To  Art !     To  Letters  !     To  the  Press  !  " 

And  thereupon  he  launched  into  a  ten  minutes' 
speech,  the  craziest,  most  marvellous  improvisation 
which  ever  issued  from  that  satirical  brain. 

Imagine  a  review  of  events  at  the  end  of  a  year, 
entitled,  "The  Bohemia  of  Letters  in  18-" — ■ 
our  so  called  literary  meetings,  our  disquisitions, 
our  quarrels,  all  the  absurdities  of  an  eccentric 
society,  a  sewer  of  ink,  hell  without  grandeur, 
where  the  denizens  throttle,  and  gut,  and  rob  one 


1 10  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

another,  and  talk  interest  and  sous  (far  more  than 
they  do  among  the  bourgeois),  which  does  not 
hinder  many  from  dying  of  hunger — in  short,  an 
epitome  of  all  our  meanness,  all  our  paltriness;  old 
Baron  T.  .  .  of  the  Tombola  going  about  saying 
"  gna,  gna,  gna  "  in  the  Tuileries  gardens  with  his 
wooden  bowl  and  his  bottle-blue  coat ;  together 
with  the  deaths  of  the  year,  the  burials  pro  tern., 
the  funeral  orations,  always  the  same  "  dear  and 
regretted  "  over  a  poor  devil  whose  grave  no  one 
will  pay  for ;  and  the  suicides,  and  those  who  have 
gone  mad  —  imagine  all  that  related,  detailed, 
gesticulated,  by  a  humourist  of  genius,  and  you 
will  have  an  idea  of  Bixiou's  improvisation. 

His  speech  ended  and  the  brandy  drunk,  he 
asked  me  what  time  it  was  and  went  away  without 
bidding  me  good-bye.  I  don't  know  what  the 
ushers  of  M.  Duruy  thought  of  his  visit  that  morn- 
ing, but  I  know  that  never  in  all  my  life  did  I  feel 
more  sad  or  so  ill  at  ease  for  the  work  of  the  day 
as  I  did  that  morning  after  the  departure  of  my 
terrible  visitor.  My  inkstand  sickened  me,  my 
pen  was  a  horror  to  me.  I  wanted  to  rush  away, 
afar,  to  see  trees,  to  smell  something  good.  What 
hatred,  great  God !  what  gall !  what  a  need  to 
slaver  all  things  !  to  soil  all  things  !  Ah  !  the  mis- 
erable man ! 

I  paced  up  and  down  my  room  in  a  fury,  fancy- 
ing I  still  heard  the  sneer  of  disgust  with  which  he 
had  spoken  of  his  daughter. 

Suddenly,  near  the  chair  where  the  blind  man 


Bixious  Portfolio.  1 1 1 

had  been  sitting,  I  felt  something  touch  my  foot. 
Stooping  I  saw  his  portfolio,  a  big,  shiny  wallet 
with  broken  edges,  which  never  left  him,  and 
which  he  called  in  jest  his  "venom  pocket."  That 
pocket  was  as  renowned  among  us  as  the  famous 
boxes  of  M.  de  Girardin.  It  was  said  there  were 
terrible  things  within  it.  The  opportunity  now 
offered  itself  to  ascertain  if  this  were  so.  In  fall- 
ing, the  old  portfolio,  stuffed  too  full,  had  burst, 
and  the  papers  lay  scattered  on  the  carpet.  I 
was  forced  to  pick  them  up,  one  by  one ;  and  so 
doing  I  saw :  — 

A  number  of  letters,  written  on  flowered  paper, 
all  beginning :  "  My  dear  papa,"  and  signed  Cttine 
Bixiou  of  the  Children  of  Marie. 

Old  prescriptions  for  children's  ailments ;  croup, 
convulsions,  scarlatina,  measles ;  the  poor  little 
thing  had  not  been  spared  a  single  one. 

Finally,  from  a  large  sealed  envelope,  a  few 
strands  of  yellow  curly  hair  were  escaping,  and  on 
the  paper  was  written,  in  big,  straggling  writing, 
the  writing  of  a  blind  man  :  — 

"Celine's  hair,  cut  off  May  13th;  the  day 
she  entered  over  there." 

That  is  what  there  was  in  Bixiou's  portfolio. 

Ah,  Parisians,  you  are  all  alike.  Disgust,  sar- 
casm, infernal  laughter,  ferocious  jeers,  and  then— « 
Celine's  hairy  cut  off  May  13th. 


ii2  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

THE    LEGEND    OF    THE    MAN    WITH    THE 
GOLDEN    BRAIN. 

TO  THE  LADY  WHO   ASKS   FOR   GAY   STORIES. 

On  reading  your  letter,  madame,  I  felt  some- 
thing like  remorse.  I  blamed  myself  for  the  half- 
mourning  colour  of  my  tales,  and  I  resolved  to 
offer  you  to-day  something  joyous,  even  wildly 
joyous. 

Why  should  I  be  sad,  after  all  ?  I  am  living  a 
thousand  leagues  from  Parisian  fogs,  on  a  luminous 
hill,  in  a  land  of  tambourines  and  muscat  wine. 
Around  me  is  nought  but  sun  and  music ;  I  have 
orchestras  of  finches,  choral  societies  of  tom-tits ; 
in  the  morning,  curlews  are  saying :  Coureli !  cou- 
reli !  at  midday  come  the  cicadas ;  and  then  the 
shepherds  playing  their  fifes,  and  the  pretty  young 
brunettes  laughing  among  the  vines.  In  truth, 
this  place  is  ill-chosen  to  rub-in  black.  I  ought 
rather  to  send  to  a  lady  rose-coloured  poems  and 
tales  of  gallantry. 

But,  no !  I  am  still  too  near  Paris.  Every  day 
that  city  sends  me,  even  among  my  pines,  spatter- 
ings  of  her  sadness.  At  the  moment  when  I  write 
these  lines,  the  news  reaches  me  of  poor  Charles 
Barbara's  miserable  death,  and  my  mill  is  a  place 
of  mourning.    Adieu,  curlews  and  cicadas  !     I  have 


The  Afan  with  the  Golden  Brain.      1 1 3 

no  heart  now  for  gayety.  This  is  why,  madame, 
instead  of  the  lively,  jesting  story  that  I  meant  to 
write  for  you,  you  must  accept  to-day  one  more 
melancholy  legend.  l. 

There  was  once  a  man  with  a  golden  brain ;  yes, 
*«iulain&  a  brain  all  golden.  'When  he  came  into 
the  world  the  doctors  thought  4fe«fc  the  babe  could 
not  live,  so  heavy  was  his  head  and  his  cranium  so 
developed.  He  did  live,  however,  and  he  grew  in 
the  sun  like  a  beautiful  olive-tree. ^>But  his  big 
head  dragged  him  about,  and  it  was  pitiable  to  see 
how  he  knocked  against  the  furniture  as  he  went 
along.  *He  often  fell*  Once  he  rolled  from  the 
top  of  a  portico   and  struck  his  forehead  on  the  a 

marble  steps,  and  his  skull  rang  like  an  ingot  of 
metal.  They  thought  him  dead ;  but,  on  picking 
him  up,  only  a  slight  wound  was  found,  out  of 
which  two  or  three  tiny  drops  of  gold  oozed  into 
his  hair.  This  was  how  his  parents  first  knew  that 
his  brain  was  gold.  ; 

The  thing  was  kept  secret.  The  poor  little  fel- 
low himself  did  not  know  it.  Now  and  then  he 
would  ask  why  they  no  longer  let  him  run  out  to 
play  with  the  children  in  the  street. 

"  They  would  steal  you,  my  dear  treasure,"  «^  * 
plied  his  mother. 

That  gave  the  little  one  a  great  fear  of  being 
stolen.  He  played  alone,  and  said  no  more ;  stag- 
gering heavily  from  one  room  to  another. 

When  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age  his  parents 
6*sfr-  revealed    to    him  the   abnormal    gift  he  had 
8 


H4  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

received  from  fate;  and  as  they  had  brought  him 
•  up  and  fed  him  until  that  day,  they  asked  him,  in 
return,  for  a  little  of  his  gold.  \.  The  lad  did  not 
hesitate.  Instantly  —  how,  or  by  what  means,  the 
legend  does  not  say  —  he  tore  from  his  brain  a 
morsel  of  massive  gold,  a  piece  as  big  as  a  nut, 
and  proudly  flung  it  on  his  mother's  lap.-VThen, 
quite  dazzleql  by  the  thought  of  the  riches  he 
r-^<;  carried  in  his  brain,  mad  with  desires,  drunk  with 
his  power,  he  quitted  his  father's  house  and  went 
out  into  the  world,  squandering  his  treasure. /s)ij*\ 

At  the  pa\:e  he4ed~4Hs4*£g  in  royal  fashion,  sow- 
ing gold  without  counting  it,  one  would  have 
thought  that  his  brain  was  inexhaustible.  It  did 
exhaust  itself,  however^  and  by  degrees  his  eyes 
&t^  grew  dim,  his  cheeks  hollow.  At  las*,  one  morn- 
•'  ing  after  a  wild  debauch,  the  unfortunate  fellow, 
left  alone  amid  the  fragments  of  the  feast  and  the 
lamps  that  were  paling,  was  horrified  at  the  enor- 
mous breach  he  had  made  in  his  ingots.:  It  was 
time  to  stop.^  J  .1 

Henceforth,  a  new  existence.  //  The  man  with 
the  golden  brain  went  away,  to  live  apart,  -hy+he 
work  of  his  hands;  auspicious  and  timid  as  a 
miser,  fleeing  from  temptation,  striving  to  forget^ 
himself- the  fatal  riches  which  he  desired  never 
to  touch  again.  Unfortunately,  a  friend  followed 
imo  his  solitude ;  aacl  that  friend  knew  his 
/ 


secre 


[   —J  One  night  the  poor  n*an  was  awakened  by  a  pain 
in/his  head,  a  dreadful  pain ;  he  sprang  up  terri- 


The  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain.     115 

[led,  and  saw,  in  a  moon  ray,  his  friend  hastily  de- 
basing and  hiding  something  beneath  his  cloak.      - 

A  piece  of  his  brain  which  was  stolen  from  him  !  //  |K 
L'Some  time  later,  the  man  with  the  golden  brain 
Fell  in  love.  This  time  all  was  over  with  him. 
He  loved  with  the  best  of  his  soul  a  fair-haired 
ittle  woman,  who  loved  him  in  return,  but  never- 
;heless  preferred  bow-knots  and  feathers  and  pretty 
)ronze  tassels  to  her  boots. fcrgjSkJ 

Between  the  fingers  of  this  dainty  creature,  half 
Dird,  half  doll,  the  gold  slipped  gayly  away.  She 
tiad  all  the  caprices ;~  he  never  could  say  her 
gay.;  I  for  fear  of  troubling  her,  he  never  told  her 
to  the  last  about  the  melancholy  source  of  his 
fortune.  <■ — - 

r  "  We  must  be  very  rich,"  she  would  say. 
-  And  the  poor  fellow  answered  :  —     f 

"  Oh,  yes  !  very  rich  indeed  !  "--> 

And  so  saying  he  smiled  with  love  at  the  little 
feiry  bird  that  was  eating  his  brain  out  innocently. 
Sometimes,  how#¥er,  fears  took  possession  of  him  ; 
he  longed  to  become  a  miser ;  but  then  the  little 
woman  would  come  to  him,,  skipping,  and  say : 

"  My  husband,  you  are  so  rich,  buy  me  some- 
thing that  is  very  costly.'' .  - 

And  he  bought  her  something  that  was  very 
costly.   • 

This  lasted  two  years ;  then,  one  morning,  the 
little  woman  died,  no  one  knew  why,  Jike  a  bird^ 
The  gold  was  almost  at  an  end,  and  with  what  re- 
mained of  it  the  widower  gave  his  4&a*  lost  love  a 
fine  interment.     Bells  all  ringing^  mourning  coaches 


\MA 


1 1 6  Letters  from  My  Mill 

draped  with  black^horses  caparisoned,  silver  tears 
upon  -the  .velv&tfoflrafrgreat  black  plumes  upon  their 
heads.-  Nothing  seemed  to  him  too  magnificent.- 
What  was  his  gold  to  him  now  ?~  He  gave  it  to  the 
church,  to  the  bearers,  to  those  who  sold  the  im- 
\s\WQrtelles-;  he  gave  it/to  every  one^without  ^-  ques- 
tion. So,  on  leaving  the  cemetery^almost  nothing 
remained  to  him  of  that  marvellous  brain,  except  a 
few  atoms  in  the  corners  of  the  cranium.   .   > 

Then   he    was   seen   to   go   away   through   the 
streets,  with  a  wild  look,  his  hands  held  out  be- 
fore him,  stumbling  along   like  a  drunken   man.« 
At   night,   when    the    arcades   were    brilliant,   he 
stopped   before  a  large  show-window  in  which  a 

it  r  o 

mass  of  stuffs  and  adornments  glittered  under  the 
gaslight,  arrtr  fixing  his  eyes  on  two  pairs  of  blue 
satin  slippers  lined  with  swan's-down,  }'l  wonder 
which  she  would  like  best,"  he  said  to  himself, 
smiling.  Then,  forgetting  already  that  the  little 
wife  was  dead,  he  entered  to  buy  them.  / 

At  the  farther,  end  of  the  shop  the  owner  heard 
a  loud  cry ;  rushing  forward  she  recoiled  with  fear 
on  seeing  a  tall  man  leaning  on  the  counter  and 
gazing  at  her  stupefied.  In  one  hand  he  was  hold- 
ing a  pair  of  blue  slippers  lined  with  swan's-down;, 
the  other  he  held  out  to  her,  all  cut  and  bleedings 
with  fragments  of  gold  at  the  tips  of  the  nails. 

k>i$  - 

That,  madame,  is  the  legend  of  the  man  with  the 
golden  brain. 

In  spite  of  its  fantastic  air,  this  legend  is  true 
from  beginning  to  end.     There  are  in  this  world 


The  Man  with  the  Golden  Brain.     117 

poor  fellows  who  are  compelled  to  live  by  their 
brains,  and  to  pay  in  the  fine  gold  of  their  marrow 
and  substance  for  the  smallest  things  of  life.  It  is 
their  daily  martyrdom ';  and  when  they  are  weary 
of  suffering  — 


Ii3  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


THE  POET  MISTRAL. 

Last  Sunday,  on  rising,  I  fancied  I  had  waked 
in  the  rue  du  Faubourg-Montmartre.  It  rained, 
the  sky  was  gray,  the  mill  melancholy.  I  was  afraid 
to  spend  that  cold,  rainy  day  at  home,  and  suddenly 
a  desire  came  to  me  to  go  and  warm  myself  up  be- 
side Frederic  Mistral,  that  great  poet,  who  lives 
three  leagues  away  from  my  pines  in  his  little 
village  of  Maillane. 

No  sooner  thought  than  gone;  a  myrtle-wood 
stick,  my  Montaigne,  a  wrap,  and  I  am  off! 

No  one  in  the  fields.  Our  noble  Catholic  Pro- 
vence leaves  the  earth  to  rest  on  Sundays.  The 
farmhouses  are  closed,  the  dogs  are  alone  in  the 
yards.  Now  and  then  I  meet  the  waggon  of  a  car- 
rier with  its  streaming  hood,  or  an  old  woman 
wrapped  in  her  mantle,  colour  of  dead  leaves,  or 
mules  in  their  gala  trappings,  saddle-cloths  of  blue 
and  white  matweed,  scarlet  pompons  and  silver 
bells,  drawing  at  a  trot  a  carriole  of  the  farm  hands 
going  to  mass ;  and  away  over  there,  through  the 
fog,  I  see  a  boat  on  the  pond  and  a  fisherman 
standing  to  cast  his  net. 

No  possibility  of  reading  on  the  way.  The  rain 
is  falling  in  torrents  and  the  tramontana  is  dashing 
it  in  bucketfuls  on  my  face.     I  do  the  way  at  a 


The  Poet  Mistral.  119 

rush ;  and  after  a  walk  of  three  hours  I  see  before 
me  the  little  cypress  wood  in  the  middle  of  which 
Maillane  shelters  itself  in  dread  of  the  wind. 

Not  a  cat  in  the  village  streets ;  everybody  is  at 
high-mass.  As  I  pass  before  the  church  the  trom- 
bones are  snorting  and  I  see  the  lighted  candles 
through  the  panes  of  coloured  glass. 

The  poet's  house  is  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
village,  the  last  house  to  the  left  on  the  road  to 
Saint-Remy,  —  a  tiny  house  of  one  storey  with  a 
garden  in  front.  I  enter  softly.  No  one !  The 
door  of  the  salon  is  closed,  but  I  hear  behind  it 
some  one  who  is  walking  about  and  talking.  The 
voice  and  step  are  known  to  me.  I  stop  a  moment 
in  the  little  whitewashed  passage,  my  hand  on  the 
button  of  the  door,  quite  agitated.  My  heart  is 
beating.  He  is  there.  At  work.  Must  I  wait  till  the 
strophe  is  composed  ?     F  faith,  no.     I  will  enter. 

Ah !  Parisians,  when  the  poet  of  Maillane  went 
to  you  to  show  Paris  to  his  Mireille,  and  you  saw 
him  in  your  salons,  that  Chactas  in  a  dress  coat, 
a  stiff  collar,  and  the  tall  hat  which  hampered  him, 
as  did  his  fame,  you  thought  that  was  Mistral. 
No,  it  was  not  he.  There  is  but  one  Mistral  in 
the  world,  he  whom  I  surprised  last  Sunday  in  his 
village  with  a  felt  hat  on  one  ear,  a  jacket,  no 
waistcoat,  a  red  Catalan  waistband  round  his  loins, 
his  eye  blazing,  the  fire  of  inspiration  on  his 
cheek-bones,  superb,  with  a  kind  smile,  graceful 
as  a  Greek  shepherd,  and  walking  up  and  down, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  making  poetry. 


1 20  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

"What?  is  it  you?"  cried  Mistral,  springing  to 
embrace  me.  "  What  a  good  idea  of  yours  to  come  ! 
This  is  the  fete  day  of  Maillane.  We  have  a  band 
from  Avignon,  bulls,  a  procession,  the  farandole  ; 
it  will  all  be  magnificent.  My  mother  will  soon  be 
home  from  mass ;  we  shall  have  breakfast,  and  then, 
zou  !  we  '11  go  and  see  the  pretty  girls  dance." 

While  he  spoke,  I  looked  with  emotion  at  the 
little  salon  hung  in  light  colours,  which  I  had  not 
seen  for  a  long  time,  but  where  I  had  passed  so 
many  glorious  hours.  Nothing  was  changed.  Still 
the  same  sofa  with  yellow  squares,  the  two  arm- 
chairs of  straw,  the  Venus  without  arms,  the 
Venus  of  Aries  on  the  mantel,  the  portrait  of  the 
poet  by  Hebert,  his  photograph  by  fitienne  Carjat 
and,  in  a  corner,  near  the  window,  the  desk  (a 
shabby  little  registration-clerk's  desk)  piled  with 
old  volumes  and  dictionaries.  At  the  centre  of 
the  desk  I  saw  a  large  open  manuscript.  This 
was  Calendal,  —  Mistral's  new  poem,  which  will 
appear  on  Christmas-day  of  the  present  year. 
This  poem,  Mistral  has  been  working  at  for  seven 
years,  and  it  is  now  six  months  since  he  wrote  the 
last  line  of  it;  but  he  dares  not  part  from  it  yet. 
You  understand,  there  is  always  a  verse  to  polish, 
a  rhyme  more  sonorous  to  find.  Though  Mistral 
composes  wholly  in  the  Provencal  language,  he 
writes  and  rewrites  his  lines  as  if  all  the  world 
could  read  them  in  their  own  tongue  and  do  jus- 
tice to  his  labour  as  a  good  workman.  Oh !  the 
noble  poet !  it  is  surely  of  Mistral  that  Montaigne 
might  have  said :  — 


The  Poet  Mistral.  121 

"  Do  you  remember  him  of  whom  it  was  asked 
why  he  took  such  trouble  about  an  art  which 
could  reach  the  knowledge  of  so  few  persons? 
'  The  few  are  enough  for  me/  he  answered.  '  One 
is  enough.     None  is  enough.'  " 

I  took  the  manuscript  of  Calendal  in  my  hand, 
and  I  turned  its  leaves  with  emotion.  Suddenly 
a  burst  of  fifes  and  tambourines  sounded  in  the 
street  beneath  the  windows,  and  behold,  my  Mis- 
tral rushing  to  his  closet,  bringing  out  glasses  and 
bottles,  dragging  the  table  to  the  middle  of  the 
salon,  and  opening  the  door  to  the  musicians,  say- 
ing to  me  as  he  did  so :  — 

"  Don't  laugh.  They  have  come  to  serenade  me. 
I  am  a  municipal  counsellor." 

The  little  room  became  crowded  with  people. 
They  laid  their  tambourines  on  the  chairs  and  put 
their  old  banner  in  a  corner.  Boiled  wine  cir- 
culated. Then,  when  several  bottles  had  been 
emptied  to  the  health  of  M.  Frederic  and  they 
had  gravely  conversed  together  about  the  festival 
—  would  the  farandole  be  as  fine  as  last  year? 
would  the  bulls  behave  properly?  —  the  musicians 
retired  to  go  and  greet  the  other  members  of  the 
Council  with  a  like  serenade.  At  this  moment 
Mistral's  mother  appeared. 

In  a  turn  of  the  hand  the  table  is  laid  with  a  fine 
white  cloth  and  two  places.  I  know  the  customs 
of  the  house.  I  know  that  when  Mistral  has  com- 
pany his  mother  never  sits  at  table.  The  poor 
old  woman  speaks  only  Provencal,  and  would  feel 


122  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

very  ill  at  her  ease  with  Frenchmen.     Besides,  she 
is  wanted  in  the  kitchen. 

Dieu  !  the  good  meal  I  made  that  morning :  a 
bit  of  roast  kid,  some  mountain  cheese,  grape  jelly, 
figs,  and  muscat  grapes.  The  whole  washed  down 
with  that  good  Chdteau-neuf  des  Popes  that  has  so 
fine  a  rosy  colour  in  the  glasses. 

At  dessert,  I  fetched  the  poem  and  laid  it  on 
the  table  before  Mistral. 

"  But  we  said  we  would  go  out,"  said  the  poet, 
smiling. 

"  No,  no  !     Calendal !  Calendal !  " 

Mistral  resigned  himself,  and  in  his  soft  and 
musical  voice,  beating  time  to  his  lines  with  his 
hand,  he  sang  the  first  quatrain :  "  Of  a  girl  mad 
with  love,  —  I  have  told  the  sad  adventure,  —  and 
I  now  will  sing,  if  God  so  wills,  a  child  of  Cassis  — 
a  poor  little  sardine  fisher." 

Without,  the  bells  were  ringing  for  vespers,  the 
fire-crackers  burst  in  the  square,  the  fifes  and  the 
tambourines  marched  up  and  down,  and  the  bulls 
of  the  Camargue,  held  ready  for  the  race,  bellowed 
loudly. 

I,  my  elbows  on  the  cloth,  and  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  I  listened  to  the  tale  of  the  little  Provencal 
fisher-lad. 

Calendal  was  only  a  fisher-lad ;  love  made  him 
a  hero.  To  win  the  heart  of  his  darling,  the  lovely 
Este>ella,  he  undertook  marvellous  things,  beside 
which  the  labours  of  Hercules,  those  twelve  labours, 
were  nothing. 


The  Poet  Mistral.  123 

Once,  taking  a  notion  to  be  rich,  he  invented  a 
formidable  fishing-net,  and  with  it  he  brought  into 
port  all  the  fish  of  the  sea. 

Again,  't  was  the  terrible  bandit  of  the  gorges 
of  Ollioules,  Count  S^veran,  whom  he  drove  to 
his  eyrie  on  the  heights,  with  his  cut-throats  and 
concubines. 

What  a  bold  little  chap,  this  Calendal !  One  day 
at  Sainte-Baume,  he  met  two  parties  of  knights, 
come  to  settle  their  quarrel  by  orthodox  blows  at 
the  tomb  of  Mattre  Jacques,  —  a  Provencal  who, 
an  it  please  you,  built  the  frame  of  the  temple  of 
Solomon.  Calendal,  fearing  nothing,  rushed  head- 
long in  the  midst  of  the  killing,  appeasing  the 
knights  with  his  tongue. 

Other  superhuman  undertakings !  Among  the 
rocks  of  Lure,  was  a  forest  of  cedars,  inaccessible, 
where  never  a  woodsman  dared  to  go.  Calendal 
went.  There  he  lived  all  alone  for  thirty  days. 
During  those  thirty  days  the  sound  of  his  axe  was 
heard,  driven  deep  in  the  trees.  The  forest  moaned  ; 
one  after  another  its  old,  giant  trees  fell  and  were, 
rolled  to  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  so  that  when 
Calendal  came  down  not  a  cedar  remained  on  the 
mountain. 

At  last,  in  reward  for  such  prowess,  the  sardine 
fisher  obtains  the  love  of  Esterella,  and  is  named 
first  consul  by  the  dwellers  in  Cassis.  That  is 
the  tale  of  Calendal;  but  Calendal  matters  but 
little.  What  there  is  above  all  in  the  poem  is  — 
Provence;  Provence  of  the  sea,  Provence  of  the 
mountain;  with  its  history,  legends,  manners,  cus- 


124  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

toms,  landscapes  —  a  whole  people,  naive  and  free, 
who  have  found  their  great  poet  before  he  dies. 
And  now,  line  out  your  railways,  plant  those  tele- 
graph poles,  drive  the  Provencal  tongue  from  the 
schools!  Provence  will  live  eternally  in  Mireille 
and  in  CalendaL 

"  Enough  of  poesy  !  "  cried  Mistral,  closing  his 
manuscript.     "  Let  us  go  and  see  the  fete." 

We  started ;  the  whole  village  was  in  the  streets ; 
a  great  north  wind  had  swept  the  sky,  which  was 
gleaming,  joyous,  on  the  dark  red  roofs  that  were 
damp  with  rain.  We  got  there  in  time  to  see  the 
return  of  the  procession.  For  an  hour  it  was  one 
interminable  defiling  of  cowled  penitents,  white 
penitents,  blue  penitents,  gray  penitents;  sister- 
hoods of  veiled  women,  rose-coloured  banners  with 
golden  flowers,  great  gilded  wooden  saints,  much 
tarnished,  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  men,  female 
saints  in  earthenware,  coloured  like  idols,  with  bou- 
quets in  their  hands,  copes,  monstrances,  a  green 
yelvet  dais,  a  crucifix  swathed  in  white  silk  undulat- 
ing to  the  breeze  in  the  light  of  sun  and  torches, 
amid  psalms,  litanies,  and  bells  madly  ringing. 

The  procession  over,  the  saints  put  back  in  their 
chapel,  we  went  to  see  the  bulls,  then  the  games  on 
the  barn-floors,  the  wrestling,  the  three  jumps,  the 
strangle-cat,  the  bottle-game,  and  the  whole  of  the 
pretty  fun  of  a  Provence  fete.  Night  was  coming 
on  when  we  returned  to  Maillane.  On  the  square, 
before  the  little  cafe"  where  Mistral  goes  in  the  even- 
ing to  play  a  game  with  his  friend  Zidore,  a  great 


The  Poet  Mistral.  125 

bonfire  was  lighted.  The  farandole  was  organized. 
Open-work  paper  lanterns  were  lighted  in  the  dark 
corners :  youth  took  the  field ;  and  soon,  at  the 
call  of  the  tambourines,  began,  around  the  flame,  a 
whirling,  noisy  dance,  which  would  last  all  night. 

After  supper,  too  weary  to  go  about  any  longer, 
Mistral  and  I  went  up  to  his  chamber,  a  mod- 
est peasant's-chamber,  with  two  large  beds.  The 
walls  are  not  papered,  the  rafters  of  the  ceiling  are 
visible.  Four  years  ago,  when  the  Academy  gave 
to  the  author  of  Mireille  that  prize  of  three  thou- 
sand francs,  Madame  Mistral  had  an  idea. 

"  Suppose  we  paper  and  ceil  your  room?" 

"  No  !  no  !  "  cried  Mistral,  "  that 's  the  money 
of  poets,  don't  touch  it." 

So  the  room  was  left  bare ;  but  so  long  as  the 
money  of  poets  lasted  those  who  rapped  at  Mis- 
tral's door  found  his  purse  open. 

I  had  brought  up  the  sheets  of  Calendal,  for  I 
wanted  to  make  him  read  me  a  passage  before  I 
went  to  sleep.  Mistral  chose  the  pottery  incident ; 
and  here  it  is  in  a  few  words :  — 

The  scene  is  a  great  repast,  I  know  not  where. 
They  bring  upon  the  table  a  magnificent  service 
of  the  glazed  pottery  of  Moustiers.  In  the  centre 
of  each  plate,  designed  in  blue  on  the  enamel,  is 
a  Provencal  subject ;  a  whole  history  of  the  region 
is  there.  It  is  wonderful  to  see  with  what  love  the 
beautiful  service  is  described,  a  verse  to  every 
plate,  and  each  a  little  poem  of  naive  and  learned 
workmanship,  finished  as  an  idyll  of  Theocritus. 


1 26  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

While  Mistral  was  repeating  his  poems  in  that 
beautiful  Provencal  language,  more  than  three- 
fourths  Latin,  the  language  that  queens  once  spoke 
and  none  but  shepherds  can  now  understand,  I 
admired  within  me  that  man ;  and,  reflecting  on  the 
condition  of  ruin  in  which  he  found  his  mother- 
tongue  and  what  he  had  made  of  it,  I  fancied  myself 
in  one  of  those  old  palaces  of  the  princes  of  Baux, 
such  as  we  still  see  in  the  Alpilles,  roofless,  with- 
out rails  to  the  porticos,  without  sashes  to  the 
windows,  the  trefoil  of  the  arches  broken,  the 
blazon  on  the  doorways  eaten  by  mosses,  hens 
marauding  in  the  courts  of  honour,  porkers  wallow- 
ing beneath  the  dainty  columns  of  the  galleries, 
donkeys  browsing  in  the  chapel  where  the  grass 
is  green,  and  pigeons  drinking  from  the  holy-water 
basins  now  filled  by  rain,  while  among  these  dilapi- 
dated remains  of  the  past,  two  or  three  families 
have  built  themselves  huts  in  the  flanks  of  the  old 
palace.  Then,  some  fine  day,  the  son  of  a  peasant 
is  seized  with  admiration  for  these  grand  ruins; 
he  is  indignant  at  seeing  them  so  profaned :  quick, 
quick,  he  drives  out  the  cattle  and  the  poultry 
from  the  court  of  honour  and  —  the  fairies  lending 
him  a  hand  —  he  reconstructs  the  great  staircase, 
replaces  the  panels  of  the  walls,  the  sashes  of  the 
windows,  builds  up  the  towers,  regilds  the  throne 
and  its  hall,  and  raises  once  more  upon  its  base 
the  vast  old  palace  of  other  days,  where  popes  and 
empresses  lodged  and  lived. 

That  restored  palace  is  the  Provencal  language. 

That  son  of  a  peasant  is  Mistral. 


Oranges,  127 


ORANGES. 

In  Paris  oranges  have  the  melancholy  air  of 
fruit  that  is  dropped  from  the  tree  and  picked  up 
from  the  ground.  At  the  time  when  they  arrive, 
in  the  cold  and  rainy  midwinter,  their  high-coloured 
skins,  their  excessive  perfume  in  our  land  of  tran- 
quil tastes,  give  them  an  exotic  aspect,  a  little 
bohemian.  Of  a  misty  night  they  perambulate 
the  side-walks,  heaped  in  their  little  handcarts,  by 
the  dull  light  of  a  red  paper  lantern.  A  monoto- 
nous and  feeble  cry  escorts  them,  lost  in  the  roll 
of  carriages  and  the  rattle  of  omnibuses:  "Two 
sous  a  Valentia !  " 

To  three-fourths  of  all  Parisians,  this  fruit  gath- 
ered afar,  monotonous  in  its  roundness,  in  which  the 
tree  has  left  nothing  but  a  small  green  twig,  seems 
to  belong  to  confectionery,  to  sweetmeats.  The 
tissue  paper  which  wraps  it,  the  fetes  it  accom- 
panies, contribute  to  this  impression.  Toward  the 
last  of  the  year  especially,  thousands  of  oranges 
disseminated  through  the  streets,  the  peels  that  lie 
about  in  the  mud  of  the  gutters,  make  one  think 
of  some  gigantic  Christmas  tree  shaking  over  Paris 
its  branches  laden  with  imitation  fruit.  Not  a 
corner  where  we  do  not  find  them.     In  the  large 


128  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

show  windows  selected  and  arranged ;  at  the  door 
of  prisons  and  hospitals,  among  packages  of  biscuit 
and  piles  of  apples;  before  the  entrances  to  the 
Sunday  balls  and  theatres.  Their  exquisite  per- 
fume mingles  with  the  odour  of  gas,  the  scraping 
of  fiddles,  the  dust  of  the  benches  in  paradise. 
We  have  come  to  forget  that  oranges  grow  on 
orange-trees,  for  while  the  fruit  arrives  from  the 
South  in  boxes,  the  trimmed,  transformed,  dis- 
guised tree  of  the  greenhouse  where  it  has  passed 
the  winter,  makes  but  a  short  apparition  in  our 
gardens. 

To  know  oranges  well,  you  must  see  them  at 
home,  in  the  Balearic  Isles,  in  Sardinia,  Corsica, 
Algeria,  in  the  blue,  gilded  air  and  the  warm 
atmosphere  of  the  Mediterranean.  I  remember  a 
little  grove  of  orange-trees  at  the  gates  of  Blidah ; 
ah !  it  is  there  that  they  are  beautiful.  Amid  the 
dark,  lustrous,  varnished  foliage  the  fruits  have  the 
splendour  of  coloured  glass ;  they  gild  the  envi- 
roning air  with  the  dazzling  halo  that  surrounds  a 
glowing  flower.  Here  and  there  little  clearings 
through  the  branches  showed  the  ramparts  of  the 
town,  the  minaret  of  a  mosque,  the  dome  of  a  saint's 
tomb,  and,  towering  above  them  all,  the  enormous 
mass  of  Atlas,  green  at  its  base,  and  crowned  with 
snow  like  a  fleece  or  a  white  fur  softly  fallen. 

One  night  while  I  was  there,  I  do  not  know  by 
what  phenomenon,  unknown  for  thirty  years,  that 
upper  zone  of  wintry  hoar-frost  shook  itself  down 
upon  the  sleeping  town,  and  Blidah  awoke  trans- 
formed, powdered  to  white.     In  that  Algerine  air, 


Oranges.  129 

so  light,  so  pure,  the  snow  was  like  a  dust  of 
mother-of-pearl.  It  had  all  the  reflections  of  a 
white  peacock's  plume.  Most  beautiful  of  all  was 
the  orange  grove.  The  solid  leaves  held  the  snow 
intact,  like  sherbet  on  a  lacquered  dish;  and  the 
fruit,  all  powdered  with  the  hoar-frost,  had  a  soft- 
ened splendour,  a  discreet  glow,  like  gold  veiled 
lightly  in  gauze.  The  scene  had  vaguely  the 
effect  of  a  church  festival,  of  red  cassocks  under 
robes  of  lace,  the  golden  altars  swathed  in  guipure. 
But  my  best  memory  of  oranges  comes  to  me 
from  Barbicaglia,  a  great  garden  near  Ajaccio, 
where  I  went  for  my  siesta  in  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Here  the  orange-trees,  taller  and  more  spreading 
than  those  of  Blidah,  come  down  to  the  main  road, 
from  which  the  garden  is  separated  by  only  a  ditch 
and  an  evergreen  hedge.  Immediately  beyond  is 
the  sea,  the  vast  blue  sea.  .  .  Oh  !  what  good  hours 
did  I  pass  in  that  garden  !  Above  my  head  the 
orange-trees,  in  bloom  and  in  fruit,  exhaled  the 
perfume  of  their  essence.  From  time  to  time  a 
ripe  orange,  as  though  weighed  down  by  the  heat, 
fell  beside  me  with  a  flat,  echoless  sound  on  the 
fecund  earth.  I  had  only  to  put  out  my  hand. 
The  fruit  was  superb,  of  a  crimson  red  within.  It 
seemed  to  me  exquisite — and  then,  the  horizon 
was  so  beautiful !  Between  the  leaves  the  sea  put 
azure  spaces,  dazzling  as  pieces  of  broken  glass 
shimmering  in  the  quiver  of  the  air.  And  with 
all  that,  the  motion  of  the  waves  stirring  the  at- 
mosphere at  a  great  distance  with  a  cadenced 
murmur  which  rocked  you  like  an  unseen  boat, 
9 


130  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

and  the  warmth,  and  the  odour  of  the  oranges ! 
Ah !  how  good  it  was  to  sleep  in  the  garden  of 
Barbicaglia ! 

Sometimes,  however,  at  the  pleasantest  moment 
of  the  siesta,  the  roll  of  drums  would  rouse  me  with 
a  start.  It  was  those  wretched  little  drummers, 
practising  below  on  the  main-road.  Through  gaps 
in  the  hedge  I  could  see  the  brass  of  their  instru- 
ments and  their  great  white  aprons  on  their  red 
trousers.  To  shelter  themselves  a  little  from  the 
blinding  light  which  the  dust  of  the  road  reflected 
pitilessly,  the  poor  young  devils  would  plant  them- 
selves at  the  foot  of  the  garden  in  the  scanty 
shadow  of  the  hedge.  And  they  drummed  !  and 
they  were  so  hot !  Then,  wrenching  myself  forcibly 
from  my  hypnotism,  I  amused  myself  by  flinging 
them  some  of  that  beautiful  golden-red  fruit  which 
hung  close  to  my  hand.  The  drummer  first  aimed 
at  stopped.  There  was  a  moment's  hesitation,  a 
look  went  round  to  see  whence  came  that  splendid 
orange  rolling  before  him  into  the  ditch ;  then  he 
picked  it  up  very  fast  and  bit  into  it  with  his  teeth 
without  peeling  off  the  skin. 

I  remember  also  that  close  to  Barbicaglia  and 
separated  from  it  by  a  low  wall,  was  a  queer  little 
garden  that  I  could  look  into  from  the  height  where 
I  lay.  'Twas  a  small  corner  of  earth  laid  out  in 
bourgeois  fashion.  Its  paths,  yellow  with  sand 
and  bordered  with  very  green  box,  and  the  two 
cypresses  at  its  entrance  gave  it  the  appearance 
of  a  Marseillaise  surburban  villa  garden.  Not  an 
atom  of  shade.     At  the  farther  end  was  a  building 


Ora?iges.  1 3 1 

of  white  stone  with  cellar  windows  on  a  line  with 
the  ground.  At  first,  I  thought  it  a  country- 
house  ;  then  looking  closer,  a  cross  that  sur- 
mounted it,  an  inscription  cut  into  the  stone  that 
I  could  see  from  a  distance  without  distinguishing 
the  letters,  made  me  recognize  it  as  the  tomb 
of  a  Corsican  family.  All  around  Ajaccio,  there 
are  many  of  these  mortuary  chapels,  built  in 
gardens  of  their  own.  The  family  comes  on 
Sunday  to  pay  a  visit  to  its  dead.  Thus  treated, 
death  is  less  lugubrious  than  amid  the  confusion 
of  cemeteries.  The  feet  of  friends  alone  break 
the  silence. 

From  my  station  above,  I  could  see  a  good  old 
man  coming  and  going  tranquilly  along  the  paths. 
Every  day  he  trimmed  the  trees,  he  spaded,  watered, 
and  picked  off  the  faded  flowers  with  infinite  care ; 
then,  when  the  sun  was  setting,  he  always  entered 
the  little  chapel  where  the  dead  of  his  family  were 
sleeping;  and  he  put  away  his  spades  and  rakes 
and  watering-pots,  with  the  tranquillity,  the  serenity 
of  a  cemetery  gardener.  And  yet,  without  himself 
being  aware  of  it,  the  good  man  worked  with  a  cer- 
tain gravity ;  he  subdued  all  noises  and  closed  the 
door  of  the  vault  discreetly,  as  if  fearing  to  awaken 
an  inmate.  In  the  great  glowing  silence  the  neat- 
ness of  the  little  garden  was  never  troubled  by  even 
a  bird,  and  its  neighbourhood  had  nothing  sad  about 
it.  Only,  the  sea  seemed  more  immense,  the 
heavens  higher,  and  the  endless  siesta  shed  around 
the  place,  amid  a  troubled  nature  oppressive  in  its 
strength  of  life,  the  feeling  of  eternal  repose. 


132  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


THE  TWO   INNS. 

IT  happened  when  returning  from  Nlmes,  one 
July  afternoon.  The  heat  was  exhausting.  As 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the  white  road,  smok- 
ing, powdered  along  between  olive-gardens  and 
scrub-oaks,  beneath  a  silvery  sun-glare  that  filled 
the  whole  sky.  Not  a  patch  of  shade,  not  a  breath 
of  wind.  Nothing  but  the  vibration  of  that  hot  air, 
and  the  strident  noise  of  the  grasshoppers,  a  crazy, 
deafening  music  to  quick  time,  which  seemed  like 
the  actual  sonority  of  that  vast  luminous  pulsa- 
tion. I  had  walked,  as  it  were  in  the  desert,  for 
two  whole  hours  when  suddenly,  before  me,  a 
group  of  white  houses  defined  themselves  in  the 
dust  from  the  road.  This  was  what  was  called  the 
"relay  of  Saint  Vincent;"  five  or  six  buildings, 
long  barns  with  red  roofs,  a  drinking  trough  with- 
out water,  in  a  clump  of  spindling  fig-trees ;  and, 
quite  at  the  farther  end,  two  large  inns  facing  each 
other  from  opposite  sides  of  the  road. 

The  neighbouring  of  these  two  inns  had  some- 
thing peculiar  about  it.  On  one  side  a  great  new 
building,  full  of  life  and  animation ;  all  doors  open, 
the  diligence  stopping  before  it,  the  smoking 
horses  there  unharnessed,  the  travellers  getting 
out  to  drink  in  haste  on  the  road  in  the  scanty 


The   Two  Inns.  133 

shadow  of  the  walls,  the  courtyard  crowded  with 
mules  and  carts  and  the  carters  lying  under  the 
sheds  for  coolness.  Within,  shouts,  oaths,  fists 
pounding  on  the  tables,  the  rattling  of  glasses 
and  billiard-balls,  lemonade  bottles  popping ;  and 
above  this  din  a  joyous,  ringing  voice,  singing  in 
a  tone  that  shook  the  windows  :  — 

'*  My  pretty  Margoton 
Early  has  risen, 
Taken  her  silver  bowl, 
Gone  to  the  cistern." 

The  inn  directly  opposite,  on  the  contrary,  was 
silent  and  as  if  abandoned.  Grass  was  under  the 
gateway,  shutters  were  broken ;  above  the  door  a 
rusty  twig  of  box  hung  down  like  a  broken  feather, 
the  step  of  the  door  was  lower  than  the  stones  of 
the  street.  It  was  all  so  poor,  so  pitiable,  that  it 
was  really  a  charity  to  stop  there  and  drink  a  drop. 

On  entering  I  found  a  long  hall,  silent  and 
gloomy,  which  the  dazzling  light  of  three  large 
windows  seemed  to  render  gloomier  and  more 
silent  still.  A  few  lame  tables  on  which  were 
glasses  dim  with  dust,  a  ragged  billiard-table  hold- 
ing out  its  pockets  like  almsbags,  a  yellow  divan, 
an  old  counter,  were  slumbering  there  in  heavy, 
unwholesome  heat.  And  flies  !  flies  !  never  did  I 
see  so  many ;  on  the  ceilings,  sticking  to  the  win- 
dows, to  the  glasses,  in  clusters.  When  I  opened 
the  door  there  was  a  buzz,  and  a  humming  of  wings 
as  if  I  had  entered  a  bee-hive. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  hall,  in  the  embrasure 


1 34  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

of  a  window  stood  a  woman,  her  face  against  the 
panes,  quite  absorbed  in  looking  out  into  the  street. 
I  called  her  twice :  — 

"Hey!  hostess!" 

She  turned  round  slowly,  and  showed  me  a  poor 
peasant  face,  wrinkled,  fissured,  the  colour  of  the 
soil,  framed  in  long  lappets  of  rusty  lace,  such  as 
the  old  women  wear  in  these  parts.  And  yet  she 
was  not  an  old  woman;  but  tears  had  withered 
her. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  wiping  her 
eyes. 

"  To  sit  down  a  minute,  and  drink  something." 

She  looked  at  me  much  surprised,  without  mov- 
ing from  her  place,  as  if  she  did  not  understand  me. 

"  Is  not  this  an  inn?" 

The  woman  sighed. 

"  Yes  —  it  is  an  inn,  if  you  choose.  But  why 
don't  you  go,  like  others,  over  the  way?  It  is 
gayer  there." 

"  It  is  too  gay  for  me.     I  prefer  to  stay  here." 
.  And  without  waiting  for  any  reply  I  seated  my- 
self at  a  table. 

When  she  was  sure  that  I  meant  what  I  said,  the 
landlady  bustled  about  with  a  very  busy  air,  open- 
ing drawers,  moving  bottles,  dusting  glasses,  dis- 
turbing the  flies.  One  felt  that  the  arrival  of  a 
traveller  to  serve  was  quite  an  event.  Now  and  then 
the  poor  creature  paused  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
head  as  if  she  despaired  of  accomplishing  anything. 

Then  she  went  into  a  room  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  and  I  heard  her  jingling  keys,  trying  them  in 


The   Two  Inns.  135 

the  locks,  opening  the  bread-box,  blowing,  dust- 
ing, washing  plates.  From  time  to  time,  a  heavy 
sigh  or  a  stifled  sob. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  this- performance 
I  had  before  me  a  dish  of  passerilles  (dried  grapes) 
an  old  loaf  of  Beaucaire  bread  as  hard  as  sand- 
stone, and  a  bottle  of  sour  wine. 

"You  are  served,"  said  the  strange  creature; 
and  she  turned  away  hastily  to  resume  her  station 
at  the  window. 

While  I  drank  I  tried  to  make  her  talk. 

"  You  don't  have  many  people  here,  do  you,  my 
poor  woman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  monsieur,  never  any  one.  When  we 
were  alone  in  the  business,  things  were  very  differ- 
ent. Then  we  had  the  relays,  and  the  hunters  to 
dine  in  the  duck-season,  and  carriages  all  the  year 
round.  But  since  our  neighbours  came  and  set- 
tled here  we  have  lost  everything.  People  prefer 
to  go  opposite.  They  think  it  is  too  gloomy 
here.  The  fact  is,  this  house  is  not  very  agree- 
able. I  am  not  handsome,  I  have  fever  and  ague, 
and  my  two  little  ones  are  dead.  Over  there,  on 
the  contrary,  they  are  laughing  all  the  time.  It  is 
an  Arlesian  woman  who  keeps  that  inn,  a  hand- 
some woman  with  laces  and  three  rows  of  gold 
chain  round  her  neck.  The  conductor  is  her  lover, 
and  he  takes  the  diligence  there.  Besides  which, 
there  's  a  lot  of  cajolers  as  chamber-maids.  And 
that  brings  her  such  custom !  She  gets  all  the 
young    men    of    Bezouces,    Redessan,    and    Jon- 


1 36  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

quieres.  The  bagmen  come  out  of  their  way  to 
stop  there.  As  for  me,  I  am  left  all  day  alone, 
doing  nothing." 

She  said  it  with  an  absent,  indifferent  air,  her 
forehead  still  leaning  against  the  panes.  Evi- 
dently, there  was  something  in  that  opposite  inn 
which  absorbed  her  mind. 

All  of  a  sudden,  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  a 
great  commotion  took  place.  The  diligence  was 
preparing  to  start.  I  heard  the  cracks  of  the 
whip,  the  postilion's  horn,  and  the  maids  about  the 
doorway  crying  out :  "  Adiousas  !  Adiousas  !  "  and 
louder  than  all,  that  strong  voice  I  had  heard  be- 
fore, singing  more  vigorously  than  ever :  — 

"  Taken  her  silver  bowl, 
Gone  to  the  cistern, 
Sees  not  approaching  her 
Three  cavaliers." 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  the  landlady's  whole 
body  quivered,  and,  turning  to  me,  she  said  in  a 
low  voice :  — 

"Do  you.  hear  him?  That  is  my  husband. 
Does  n't  he  sing  well?  " 

I  looked  at  her,  amazed. 

"  Your  husband  !     Does  he  go  over  there,  too  ?  " 

Then  she,  with  a  heart-broken  air,  but  very 
gently :  — 

"  It  can't  be  helped,  monsieur.  Men  are  like 
that ;  they  hate  to  see  tears ;  and  I  am  always  cry- 
ing since  I  lost  my  little  ones.  Besides,  this  great 
barrack  where  no  one  comes  is  so  gloomy.  And 
when  he  is  quite  tired  of  it  my  poor  Jos£  goes  over 


The  Two  Inns.  137 

there  to  drink,  and  as  he  has  a  fine  voice  tfye 
Arlesian  woman  makes  him  sing.  Hush  !  there  he. 
is  again."' 

And,  trembling,  her  hands  outstretched,  with 
big  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  making  her  look 
uglier  than  ever,  she  stood  there  as  if  in  ecstasy  to 
hear  her  Jose  singing  for  the  Arlesian  woman :  — 

"  My  pretty  Margoton 
Early  has  risen." 


138  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


AT  MILIANAH. 
NOTES  OF  TRAVEL. 

THIS  time  I  take  you  to  spend  a  day  in  a  pretty 
little  town  of  Algeria,  two  or  three  hundred  leagues 
from  my  mill.  That  will  make  a  little  change  from 
tambourines  and  grasshoppers. 

It  is  going  to  rain,  the  sky  is  gray,  the  crests  of 
Mont  Zaccar  are  swathed  in  fog.  A  melancholy 
Sunday.  In  my  little  hotel-chamber  with  its  window 
looking  to  the  Arab  ramparts,  I  try  to  amuse  my- 
self by  lighting  cigarettes.  The  library  of  the  hotel 
has  been  placed  at  my  disposal.  Between  a  full 
and  detailed  history  of  the  registration  and  a  novel 
of  Paul  de  Kock  I  discover  a  dilapidated  volume 
of  Montaigne.  I  open  the  book  at  random  and 
re-read  the  admirable  letter  on  the  death  of  the 
Boetie.  I  am  now  more  dreamy  and  sombre  than 
ever.  A  few  drops  of  rain  are  beginning  to  fall. 
Every  drop,  as  it  falls  on  the  window  sill,  makes  a 
great  star  in  the  dust  that  has  settled  there  since 
the  rains  of  last  year.  The  book  slips  from  my 
fingers,  and  I  spend  long  minutes  in  gazing  at  that 
melancholy  splash. 

Two  o'clock  rings  from  the  tower  of  the  town  — 
the  former  tomb  of  a  saint,  the  frail  white  walls  of 
which  I  can  see  from  here.     Poor  devil  of  a  saint ! 


At  Milianak.  139 

how  little  he  thought  thirty  years  ago,  that  he 
would  carry  on  his  breast  the  huge  face  of  a 
municipal  clock,  and  that  every  Sunday  at  two 
o'clock  he  would  give  to  the  churches  of  Milianah 
the  signal  to  ring  for  vespers.  Ding  dong  !  there 
go  the  bells  S  and  long  will  they  ring.  Decidedly, 
this  room  is  melancholy.  Those  big  matutinal 
spiders  called  philosophical  thoughts  are  spinning 
their  webs  in  every  corner.     I  shall  go  out. 

I  reach  the  great  square.  The  band  of  the  3rd 
infantry,  which  a  little  rain  does  not  frighten,  is 
gathering  round  its  leader.  At  one  of  the  windows 
of  headquarters  the  general  appears,  surrounded 
by  his  young  ladies ;  on  the  square  the  sub-prefect 
is  walking  about  arm  in  arm  with  the  justice  of 
peace.  Half  a  dozen  little  Arabs,  nearly  naked, 
are  playing  marbles  in  a  corner  with  ferocious 
yells.  Over  there  is  an  old  Jew  in  rags  seeking 
for  the  sunshine  he  left  on  that  spot  yesterday,  and 
quite  surprised  not  to  find  it.  "  One,  two,  three  !  " 
and  the  band  starts  off  with  an  old  mazurka  by 
Talexy  which  the  barrel  organs  were  playing 
under  my  window  a  year  ago.  That  mazurka 
annoyed  me  then;    to-day  it  moves  me  to  tears. 

Oh !  how  lucky  they  are  those  musicians  of  the 
3rd  infantry.  Their  eyes  fixed  on  their  semi- 
quavers, tipsy  with  rhythm  and  racket,  they  are 
thinking  of  nothing  but  counting  their  time. 
Their  soul,  their  whole  soul  is  in  that  square 
of  paper  the  size  of  my  hand  which  trembles  at 
the   end  of  their  instruments  between  two  brass 


1 40  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

pins.  "  One,  two,  three  !  "  That 's  the  whole 
of  it  for  those  worthy  fellows;  never  do  the 
national  airs  they  play  give  them  a  thought  of 
home-sickness.  Alas  !  I,  who  am  not  of  the  band, 
am  distressed  by  the  band,  and  I  depart. 

Where  shall  I  spend  it,  this  dismal  Sunday  after- 
noon?.. Good!  Sid'  Omar's  shop  is  open.  I'll 
spend  it  with  Sid'  Omar. 

Though  he  has  a  shop,  Sid'  Omar  is  not  a  shop- 
keeper. He  is  a  prince  of  the  blood,  the  son  of 
a  former  Dey  of  Algiers  who  was  strangled  by 
the  janissaries.  On  the  death  of  his  father,  Sid' 
Omar  took  refuge  in  Milianah  with  his  mother, 
whom  he  adored,  and  there  he  lived  some  years 
philosophically  as  a  great  seigneur,  among  his 
hounds  and  falcons,  his  horses  and  his  women, 
in  pretty,  airy  palaces  full  of  orange-trees  and 
fountains.  Then  came  the  French.  Sid'  Omar, 
at  first  our  enemy  and  the  ally  of  Abd-el-Kader, 
ended  by  quarrelling  with  the  emir  and  making 
his  submission  to  us.  Abd-el-Kader,  to  avenge 
himself,  entered  Milianah,  during  Sid'  Omar's 
absence,  pillaged  his  palaces,  cut  down  his  orange- 
trees,  carried  off  his  horses  and  women,  and  caused 
his  mother's  throat  to  be  crushed  by  the  shutting 
down  of  the  lid  of  a  great  coffer.  The  anger  of 
Sid'  Omar  was  terrible.  Instantly  he  entered  the 
French  service,  and  we  had  no  better  or  more 
ferocious  soldier  than  he  during  all  the  time  the 
war  against  the  emir  lasted.  That  war  over, 
Sid'  Omar  returned  to  Milianah;  but  even  to-day 


At  Milianak.  •  141 

if  you  mention  the  name  of  Abd-el-Kader  in  his 
presence,  he  turns  pale,  and  his  eyes  blaze. 
.  Sid'  Omar  is  sixty  years  old.  In  spite  of  years 
and  the  smallpox,  his  face  is  still  handsome ;  long 
lashes,  the  glance  of  a  woman,  a  charming  smile, 
the  air  of  a  prince.  Ruined  by  the  war,  nothing 
is  left  of  his  former  #opulence  but  a  farm  on  the 
Chelif  plain,  and  a  house  at  Milianah,  where  he 
lives  in  bourgeois  fashion  with  his  three  sons, 
whom  he  is  bringing  up  under  his  own  eye.  The 
native  chieftains  hold  him  in  great  veneration. 
When  a  discussion  arises  they  willingly  take  him 
as  umpire;  and  his  decision  is  almost  always  re- 
garded as  law.  He  seldom  goes  out;  you  will 
find  him  every  afternoon  in  a  shop  adjoining  his 
house,  which  opens  on  the  street.  The  furniture 
of  this  place  is  not  splendid,  —  white-washed  walls, 
a  circular  wooden  bench,  cushions,  pipes,  and  two 
foot-warmers.  That  is  where  Sid'  Omar  gives  au- 
dience and  lays  down  the  law.     Solomon  in  a  shop. 

To-day,  being  Sunday,  the  company  is  numerous. 
A  dozen  sheiks  are  crouched  in  their  burnous, 
round  the  room.  Each  has  beside  him  a  large 
pipe  and  a  little  cup  of  coffee  in  a  delicate  filigree 
holder.  I  enter;  no  one  stirs.  From  his  place 
Sid'  Omar  sends  me  his  most  charming  smile 
and  invites  me  with  his  hand  to  sit  near  him  on 
a  large  cushion  of  yellow  silk.  Then,  with  his 
finger  on  his  lips,  he  makes  me  a  sign  to 
listen. 

This   is   why:  The  caid  of  the    Benizougzougs 


142  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

having  a  dispute  with  a  Milianah  Jew  about  a  bit  of 
ground,  both  parties  had  agreed  to  carry  the 
matter  to  Sid'  Omar  and  submit  to  his  decision. 
Appointment  was  made  for  the  same  day;  the 
witnesses  were  summoned  ;  when,  all  of  a  sudden, 
the  Jew  changed  his  mind,  and  came  alone,  with- 
out witnesses,  to  declare  that  he  preferred  to  sub- 
mit the  matter  to  the  French  justice  of  peace, 
rather  than  Sid'  Omar.  That  was  how  the  affair 
stood  at  my  entrance. 

The  Jew  —  old,  with  a  dirty  beard,  maroon 
jacket,  blue  stockings,  velvet  cap  —  raised  his  nose 
to  heaven,  rolled  supplicating  eyes,  kissed  the 
slippers  of  Sid'  Omar,  bowed  his  head  and  knelt 
with  clasped  hands.  I  don't  understand  Arabic, 
but  from  this  pantomime,  during  which  the  words 
"  joustice  of  peace,  joustice  of  peace  "  recurred 
incessantly,  I  could  guess  the  whole  of  the  shrewd 
meaning :  — 

"  We  do  not  doubt  Sid'  Omar  ;  Sid'  Omar  is  wise, 
Sid'  Omar  is  just.  But  the  joustice  of  peace  will 
do  better  by  us." 

The  audience,  indignant,  remained  impassible, 
as  Arabs  are  wont  to  be.  Stretched  out  upon  his 
cushion,  eyes  hazy,  the  amber-mouth-piece  be- 
tween his  lips,  Sid'  Omar  —  god  of  irony  —  smiled 
as  he  listened.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  wiliest 
sentence,  the  Jew  is  interrupted  by  an  energetic 
"  Caramba !  "  which  stops  him  short ;  and  at  the 
same  instant  a  Spanish  colonist,  who  was  there  as 
a  witness  for  the  caYd,  left  his  place,  and  approach- 
ing Iscariot  poured  upon  him  a  deluge  of  impreca- 


At  Miliauak.  143 

tions  in  all  tongues  and  all  colours  —  among  them 
a  certain  French  vocable  too  gross,  monsieur,  to 
repeat  here.  The  son  of  Sid'  Omar,  who  under- 
stood French,  blushed  at  hearing  such  a  word  in 
his  father's  presence  and  left  the  place.  (Remem- 
ber this  trait  of  Arab  education.) 

The  audience  was  still  impassible,  Sid*  Omar 
still  smiling.  The  Jew  rose  and  backed  towards 
the  door,  trembling  with  fear,  but  still  warbling  his 
eternal  "  joustice  of  peace,  joustice  of  peace."  He 
went  out.  The  Spaniard  furious,  rushed  after  him 
and  twice  —  vli !  vlan  !  —  struck  him  in  the  face. 
Iscariot  fell  on  his  knees,  his  arms  crossed.  The 
Spaniard,  rather  ashamed,  returned  to  the  shop. 
As  soon  as  he  had  entered,  the  Jew  picked  himself 
up,  and  turned  an  artful  eye  on  the  variegated 
crowd  that  surrounded  him;  a  crowd  in  which 
there  were  men  of  all  skins — Maltese,  Mahonese, 
negroes,  Arabs,  all  united  in  hatred  to  a  Jew  and 
delighting  in  seeing  him  maltreated.  Iscariot  hesi- 
tated a  moment;  then,  taking  an  Arab  by  the  flap 
of  his  burnous, — 

"  You  saw  it,  Achmed,  you  saw  it ;  you  were 
there.  The  Christian  struck  me.  Vou  must  be 
witness  —  yes,  yes,  you  shall  be  witness." 

The  Arab  freed  his  burnous  and  pushed  away 
the  Jew.  He  knows  nothing;  he  saw  nothing; 
he  was  looking  the  other  way. 

"  But  you,  Kadour,  you  saw  it ;  you  saw  the 
Christian  strike  me,"  cries  the  luckless  Iscariot  to 
a  big  negro  who  was  peeling  a  Barbary  fig. 

The  negro  spat  in  sign  of  contempt,  and  walked 


1 44  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

away  —  he  had  seen  nothing.  Neither  had  a  little 
Maltese  fellow  seen  anything  with  his  coal-black 
eyes  glittering  malignantly  beneath  his  beretta; 
nor  she,  that  Mahonese  woman  with  the  brick- 
coloured  skin,  who  ran  off  laughing,  carrying  a 
basket  of  pomegranates  on  her  head. 

In  vain  did  Iscariot  shout,  beg,  beseech  —  not 
a  witness,  no  one  had  seen  anything.  By  great 
good  luck  two  of  his  co-religionists  happened  to 
come  by  at  this  moment,  skirting  the  walls  with  a 
hang-dog  look.     The  Jew  spied  them. 

"  Quick,  quick,  brothers !  quick  to  the  joustice 
of  peace!  You  saw  him,  you  two;  you  saw  him 
how  he  struck  the  old  man." 

Had  they  seen  it?     I  should  think  so ! 

Great  excitement  in  Sid'  Omar's  shop.  The 
coffeeman  refilled  the  cups  and  relit  the  pipes. 
They  talked,  they  laughed  with  all  their  teeth.  It 
is  so  amusing  to  see  a  Jew  beaten  !  In  the  midst 
of  the  general  clatter  I  slipped  softly  to  the  door ;  I 
wanted  to  wander  about  the  Jewish  quarter  and 
see  how  Iscariot's  co-religionists  were  taking  the 
affront  thus  put  upon  their  brother. 

"  Come  and  dine  to-night,  moussieu"  called  out 
the  good  Sid'  Omar. 

I  accepted,  thanked  him,  and  went  out. 

In  the  Jewish  quarter  every  one  was  afoot. 
The  affair  had  already  made  a  great  noise.  No 
one  was  inside  the  booths.  Embroiderers,  tailors, 
harness-makers  —  all  Israel  was  in  the  streets. 
The  men,  wearing  velvet  caps  and  blue  stockings. 


At  Milianah.  145 

gesticulated  noisily  in  groups.  The  women,  pale, 
puffy,  stiff  as  wooden  idols  in  their  tight  gowns 
with  gilded  stomachers,  their  faces  framed  in 
heavy  black  bandeaux,  were  going  from  group  to 
group,  caterwauling.  Just  as  I  arrived  a  great 
impulse  was  given  to  the  crowd.  They  pressed 
together  and  hurried  along.  Accompanied  by  his 
witnesses,  the  Jew,  the  hero  of  the  adventure, 
passed  between  two  hedges  of  his  co-religionists 
under  a  rain  of  exhortations :  — 

"  Avenge  yourself,  brother !  Avenge  us ! 
Avenge  the  Jewish  people!  Fear  nothing;  you 
have  the  law  on   your  side." 

A  frightful  dwarf,  smelling  of  pitch  and  old 
leather,  came  up  to  me  with  a  piteous  air  and  said, 
sighing  heavily :  — 

"  You  see  how  they  treat  us  poor  Jews.  He 
is  an  old  man !  look  at  him.  They  have  nearly 
killed  him." 

And,  in  truth,  poor  Iscariot  did  look  more  dead 
than  alive.  He  passed  in  front  of  me  —  eyes 
dulled,  face  ghastly;  not  walking  but  dragging 
himself  along.  A  good  indemnity  alone  could 
cure  him.  Consequently,  they  did  not  take  him 
to  a  doctor,  but  to  a  lawyer. 

There  are  many  lawyers  in  Algeria,  almost  as 
many  as  there  are  grasshoppers.  The  trade  is 
a  good  one,  they  say.  At  any  rate,  it  has  this 
advantage,  it  can  be  taken  up  at  any  time,  without 
examinations,  without  sureties,  without  probation. 
Just  as  in  Paris  we  make  ourselves  men  of  letters, 

19 


146  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

in  Algeria  they  make  themselves  lawyers.  It  is 
enough  to  know  a  little  French,  Spanish,  Arabic, 
to  have  a  code  at  your  fingers'  ends,  and,  above 
all,  the  temperament  of  the  trade. 

As  for  the  functions  of  this  agent,  they  arc 
varied ;  by  turns  solicitor,  barrister,  court  official, 
expert,  interpreter,  book-keeper,  commissioner, 
public  writer,  he  is  the  Maitre  Jacques  of  the 
colony.  Only,  Harpagon  had  but  one  Maitrc 
Jacques,  and  the  colony  has  more  than  it  wants. 
At  Milianah  alone  they  count  by  dozens.  As  a 
general  thing,  these  gentlemen,  to  avoid  the  cost 
of  an  office,  receive  their  clients  at  the  cafe"  in  the 
great  square,  and  hold  their  consultations  —  do 
they  consult  at  all  ?  —  between  absinthe  and 
champoreau. 

It  was  towards  the  cafe"  in  the  great  square  that 
the  worthy  Iscariot  was  now  proceeding,  flanked  by 
his  two  witnesses.     We  will  not  follow  him. 

In  leaving  the  Jewish  quarter  I  passed  before 
the  house  of  what  is  called  the  Arab  Bureau. 
Outside,  with  its  slate  roof  and  the  French  flag 
floating  above  it,  you  would  take  it  for  the  town- 
hall  of  some  village.  I  know  the  interpreter,  and 
I  enter  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  him.  One  way  or 
another  I  shall  manage  to  kill  it,  this  sunless 
Sunday ! 

The  courtyard  in  front  of  the  bureau  is  en- 
cumbered with  Arabs  in  rags.  Fifty,  at  least,  are 
in  attendance,  crouching  along  the  walls  in  their 
burnous.     This   Bedouin    antechamber  exhales  — 


At  Milianah.  147 

though  in  the  open  air  —  a  strong  odour  of  human 
skins.  Let  us  pass  through  quickly.  In  the 
bureau  I  find  the  interpreter  involved  with  two 
big  brawlers,  entirely  naked  under  long  greasy 
coverlets,  who  are  relating  with  savage  gestures 
some  story,  I  know  not  what,  of  a  stolen  chaplet. 
I  seat  myself  on  a  mat  in  the  corner,  and  look  on.  .  . 
A  pretty  costume  that  of  interpreters,  and  how 
jauntily  the  interpreter  of  Milianah  wears  it! 
Clothes  and  man,  they  look  as  if  they  had  been 
invented  for  each  other.  The  costume  is  sky- 
blue,  with  black  froggings  and  gilt  buttons  that 
shine.  The  interpreter  himself  is  fair,  rosy,  and 
curled ;  a  charming  blue  hussar,  full  of  humour 
and  whimsicality;  quite  talkative  —  he  speaks  all 
languages  —  and  rather  sceptical,  having  known 
Renan  at  the  Oriental  College:  he  is  a  great 
lover  of  sport;  as  much  at  his  ease  in  an  Arab 
bivouac  as  he  is  in  the  salons  of  the  sub-prefecture, 
mazurking  better  than  any  one  and  making  kouss- 
kouss  better  still.  A  Parisian,  —  to  say  it  all  in 
one  word,  —  and  you  need  not  be  surprised  that 
the  women  dote  upon  him.  In  the  matter  of 
dandyism,  he  has  but  one  rival  —  the  sergeant  of 
the  Arab  Bureau.  The  latter,  in  his  broadcloth 
tunic  and  his  gaiters  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons, 
is  the  despair  and  envy  of  the  whole  garrison. 
Detailed  to  the  Arab  Bureau  he  is  relieved  from 
fatigue  duty,  and  shows  himself  about  the  streets 
in  white  gloves,  hair  freshly  curled,  with  registers 
under  his  arm.  He  is  admired,  and  feared.  He 
is  an  authority. 


148  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

Decidedly,  this  tale  of  the  stolen  chaplet  threat- 
ens to  be  very  long.  Good-bye  !  I  won't  wait  for 
the  end  of  it. 

As  I  depart  I  find  the  courtyard  antechamber 
in  commotion.  The  crowd  is  pressing  round  a 
tall  Arab,  pale  and  proud,  draped  in  a  black 
burnous.  This  man  had  a  tussle  in  the  Zaccar 
a  week  earlier  with  a  panther.  The  panther  is 
dead,  but  the  man  has  an  arm  badly  bitten.  Night 
and  morning  he  comes  to  have  his  wound  dressed 
at  the  Arab  Bureau,  and  every  time  he  comes  he 
is  stopped  in  the  courtyard  and  made  to  relate  the 
whole  adventure.  He  speaks  slowly,  in  a  beauti- 
ful deep  voice.  Now  and  then  he  opens  his 
burnous  and  shows,  fastened  to  his  breast,  the  left 
arm  bound  with  bloody  bandages. 

I  was  hardly  in  the  street  before  a  storm  burst  vio- 
lently. Rain,  thunder,  lightning,  sirocco.  Quick  ! 
to  shelter !  I  darted  through  a  gate,  hap-hazard, 
and  fell  into  the  midst  of  a  nest  of  bohemians, 
crouching  under  the  arcades  of  a  Moorish  court. 
This  court  is  next  to  the  mosque  of  Milianah  ;  it  is 
the  habitual  refuge  of  Mussulman  vagrants,  and  is 
therefore  called  the  "  court  of  the  paupers." 

Great  gaunt  hounds,  covered  with  vermin,  came 
snuffing  round  me  with  a  wicked  air.  Leaning 
against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  gallery,  I  endeav- 
oured to  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and, 
without  speaking  to  any  one,  I  watched  the  rain 
ricochetting  on  the  coloured  tiles  of  the  court- 
yard.    The  beggars  were  on  the  ground  in  piles. 


At  Milianah.  149 

Near  me  a  young  woman,  almost  handsome,  with 
bare  neck  and  legs,  and  heavy  iron  bracelets  on 
wrists  and  ankles,  was  singing  a  strange  air  on 
three  sad,  whining  notes.  As  she  sang,  she  nursed 
at  her  breast  a  little  naked  child  of  a  bronze-red 
colour,  while  with  her  one  free  arm  she  pounded 
barley  in  a  stone  mortar.  The  rain,  driven  by  the 
cruel  wind,  soaked  at  times  the  legs  of  the  woman 
and  the  body  of  her  nursling.  She  paid  no  heed 
to  it,  but  continued  to  sing  through  the  storm, 
crushing  the  barley  and  suckling  the  child. 

The  tempest  slackened.  Profiting  by  a  break 
in  the  clouds,  I  hastened  away  from  the  Moorish 
court  in  the  direction  of  Sid'  Omar  and  his  dinner. 
It  was  high  time.  Crossing  the  great  square,  I 
again  met  the  old  Jew.  He  was  leaning  on  the 
lawyer's  arm,  his  witnesses  walked  joyfully  after 
him,  and  a  band  of  villanous  little  Jew  boys  skipped 
along  with  the  party.  Their  faces  were  radiant. 
The  lawyer  had  taken  charge  of  the  affair,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  ask  for  an  indemnity  of  two 
thousand  francs. 

At  Sid'  Omar's  a  sumptuous  dinner.  The  dining- 
room  opens  on  an  elegant  Moorish  court,  where 
two  or  three  fountains  are  singing.  Excellent 
Turkish  repast,  recommended  to  Baron  Brisse. 
Among  other  dishes,  I  remember  a  chicken  with 
almonds,  kouss-kouss  a  la  vanille,  a  turtle  stuffed 
with  meat  —  a  little  heavy  perhaps,  but  very  appe- 
tizing—  and  biscuits  made  of  honey,  called  bouchees 
de  cadi.     By  way  of  wine,  champagne  only.     In 


1 50  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

spite  of  the  Mussulman  law,  Sid'  Omar  drank  a  lit- 
tle of  it,  when  the  servants'  backs  were  turned. 
After  dinner  we  removed  to  our  host's  bedcham- 
ber, and  there  they  brought  us  confectionery,  pipes, 
and  coffee.  The  furniture  of  this  room  is  of  the 
simplest :  a  divan,  a  few  mats,  at  the  farther  end  a 
very  high  large  bed,  on  which  red  cushions  em- 
broidered in  gold  are  scattered  about.  Hanging 
to  the  wall  is  an  old  Turkish  picture  representing 
the  exploits  of  a  certain  admiral,  Hamadi.  It 
seems  that  in  Turkey  painters  use  but  one  colour 
to  each  picture;  this  picture  is  vowed  to  green. 
The  sea,  the  sky,  the  ship,  Admiral  Hamadi  him- 
self, all  are  green  —  and  what  a  green  ! 

Arab  customs  require  you  to  retire  early.  Coffee 
taken  and  the  pipes  smoked,  I  wished  good-night 
to  my  host,  and  left  him  with  his  women. 

Where  shall  I  finish  my  evening?  It  is  too  early 
to  go  to  bed;  the  bugles  of  the  spahis  have  not 
yet  sounded  taps.  Besides,  the  golden  cushions  of 
Sid'  Omar  dance  fantastic  farandoles  about  me, 
and  would  hinder  me  from  sleeping.  Lo !  here 
I  am  before  a  theatre;  suppose  I  enter  for  a 
moment? 

The  theatre  of  Milianah  is  an  old  forage  store- 
house, more  or  less  disguised  for  stage  purposes. 
Huge  glass  cups  which  they  fill  with  oil  between 
the  acts  serve  as  lustres.  The  pit  stands;  the 
occupants  of  the  orchestra  sit  on  benches.  The 
galleries  are  very  proud  because  they  have  straw 
chairs.    All  around  the  audience  chamber  is  a  long 


At  Milianah.  151 

dark  passage,  unfloored,  where  one  might  think 
one's  self  in  the  street.  The  play  has  already  begun 
when  I  enter.  To  my  great  surprise,  the  actors 
are  not  bad ;  I  speak  of  the  men;  they  have  spirit 
and  animation,  life.  Nearly  all  are  amateurs,  sol- 
diers of  the  third  infantry ;  the  regiment  is  proud 
of  them,  and  comes  nightly  to  applaud  their  per- 
formance. 

As  for  the  women,  alas !  they  are  ever  and  al- 
ways that  "eternal  feminine"  of  the  little  provin- 
cial stage  —  pretentious,  exaggerated,  and  false. 
Among  them,  however,  there  are  two  who  in- 
terest me,  two  Milianah  Jewesses,  very  young, 
who  are  making  their  first  appearance  in  public. 
Their  parents  are  in  the  hall  and  seem  enchanted. 
They  are  convinced  that  their  daughters  will  earn 
millions  of  douros  in  the  business.  The  legend  of 
Rachel,  Israelite,  millionaire,  and  actress,  has  spread 
among  the  Jews  of  the  Orient.  Nothing  could  be 
more  comical,  yet  affecting,  than  those  two  little 
Jewesses  on  the  stage.  They  kept  themselves  tim- 
idly in  a  corner  of  it,  painted,  powdered,  low-necked, 
and  perfectly  rigid.  They  were  cold;  they  felt 
ashamed.  Now  and  then,  they  sputtered  a  speech 
without  understanding  .  it,  and  while  they  spoke 
their  great  black  Hebrew  eyes  wandered  round 
the   audience-chamber,  stupefied. 

I  leave  the  theatre.  Amid  the  darkness  that 
surrounds  me,  I  hear  cries  in  the  corner  of  the 
square.  A  few  Maltese,  no  doubt,  who  are  en- 
gaged in  explaining  something  with  knives. 


152  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

I  return  to  my  hotel,  slowly,  by  way  of  the  ram- 
parts. Adorable  odours  of  orange-trees  and 
thuyas  rise  from  the  plain.  The  air  is  soft,  the 
sky  almost  cloudless.  Below,  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  road,  rises  the  ghost  of  an  old  wall,  the  re- 
mains of  some  ancient  temple.  That  wall  is  sacred. 
Every  day  the  Arab  women  flock  there  to  hang 
their  votive  offerings  upon  it,  —  fragments  of  stuffs, 
long  tresses  of  ruddy  hair  tied  with  silver  threads, 
pieces  of  burnous.  All  this  is  floating  in  the  moon- 
rays  to  the  soft  breath  of  the  balmy  night. 


The  Locus  Is.  153 


THE   LOCUSTS. 

One  more  recollection  of  Algeria,  and  then  we 
will  return  to  my  mill. 

The  night  of  my  arrival  at  that  farm-house  in  the 
Sahel  I  could  not  sleep.  The  novelty  of  the  country, 
the  agitation  of  the  voyage,  the  barking  of  the  jack- 
als, also  an  enervating  oppressive  heat,  a  choking 
atmosphere  as  if  the  meshes  of  the  mosquito  net 
did  not  allow  of  the  passing  of  a  breath  of  air. 
When  I  opened  my  window  at  dawn  a  heavy  sum- 
mer fog,  slowly  moving,  fringed  at  its  edges  with 
black  and  rose,  floated  in  the  air  like  a  cloud  of 
smoke  on  a  battlefield.  Not  a  leaf  stirred,  and  in 
the  beautiful  gardens  which  lay  before  my  eyes,  the 
vines  planted  at  regular  distances  on  the  slopes  ex- 
posed to  the  sun  which  makes  those  sugary  wines, 
the  fruits  of  Europe  sheltering  in  a  shady  corner, 
the  little  orange-trees,  the  mandarins  in  long  micro- 
scopic lines  —  all  these  wore  the  same  mournful 
aspect,  the  stillness  of  leaves  expecting  a  storm. 
The  banana-trees  themselves,  those  great  reeds  of 
a  tender  green,  always  shaken  by  a  breeze  ruffling 
their  delicate  fine  hair,  now  rose  silent  and  erect  in 
regular  bunches. 


1 54  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

1  stood  a  moment  looking  at  this  marvellous 
plantation,  where  all  the  trees  in  the  world  were 
collected,  giving,  each  in  its  season,  their  flowers 
and  their  exiled  fruits.  Between  the  wheat-fields 
and  the  groves  of  cork-trees,  a  stream  of  water 
shone,  refreshing  to  the  sight  on  this  suffocating 
morning ;  and  while  I  admired  the  luxury,  the  per- 
fect order  of  all  before  me,  and  the  beautiful  farm- 
house with  its  Moorish  arcades,  the  terraces  white  in 
the  dawn,  the  stables  and  sheds  around  it,  I  reflected 
that  twenty  years  earlier,  when  the  good  people 
who  owned  the  place  had  come  to  settle  in  this 
valley  of  the  Sahel,  they  had  found  nothing  but  a 
wretched  hut  and  a  barren  land  bristling  with 
dwarf  palms  and  cactus.  All  to  create,  all  to  con- 
struct. At  every  moment  revolts  of  the  Arabs. 
The  plough  was  left  in  the  furrow  to  fire  the 
musket.  Besides  this,  diseases,  ophthalmias,  fevers, 
failure  of  crops,  the  groping  of  inexperience, 
struggles  with  a  narrow-minded  administration 
forever  changing.  What  efforts  !  What  fatigue  ! 
What  incessant  watchfulness ! 

And  even  now,  though  the  bad  times  were  over, 
and  fortune  was  dearly  won,  they  both,  the  man  and 
his  wife,  were  the  first  to  be  up  in  the  morning. 
At  this  early  hour  I  heard  them  going  and  coming 
in  the  great  kitchens  of  the  lower  floor,  superin- 
tending the  coffee  of  the  labourers.  Soon  a  bell 
rang,  and  a  moment  later  workmen  defiled  along 
the  road,  —  vineyard  men  from  Burgundy,  Kabyle 
labourers  in  rags  wearing  the  red  fez,  Mahonese 
navvies  with  bare   legs,   Maltese,   Italians;  an  in- 


7^ he  Locusts.  155 

congruous,  dissimilar  populace,  difficult  to  man- 
age. To  each  of  them  the  farmer,  standing  before 
the  door,  gave  his  task  for  the  day  in  a  curt  voice, 
rather  roughly.  When  this  was  over,  the  good  man 
raised  his  head,  examined  the  sky  with  an  anxious 
air,  and  seeing  me  at  the  window  he  said :  "  Bad 
weather  for  farming ;  here 's  the  sirocco." 

And  sure  enough,  as  the  sun  rose,  puffs  of  burn- 
ing, sufTocating  air  came  to  us  from  the  South  as 
if  from  the  door  of  an  oven  opening  and  shutting. 
Presently  one  knew  not  where  to  put  one's  self,  or 
what  to  do.  The  whole  morning  passed  thus, 
We  took  coffee  on  the  straw  mats  in  the  gallery, 
without  courage  to  speak  or  stir.  The  dogs  lying 
at  full  length  in  exhausted  attitudes  sought  cool- 
ness on  the  flags.  Breakfast  revived  us  a  little,  a 
plentiful  and  singular  breakfast,  in  which  there 
were  carp,  trout,  wild  boar,  hedgehog,  Staoueli 
butter,  wines  of  Crescia,  guavas,  bananas,  a  mass 
of  strange  food  in  keeping  with  the  complex  Nature 
that  surrounded  us.  .  .  We  were  about  to  rise  from 
table.  Suddenly  at  the  glass-door,  closed  to  pro- 
tect us  from  the  furnace  heat  of  the  garden,  loud 
cries  were  heard  :   "  The  locusts  !  the  locusts!  " 

My  host  turned  pale,  like  a  man  to  whom  a 
great  disaster  is  told,  and  we  rushed  out  hastily. 
During  the  next  ten  minutes  the  house,  lately  so 
calm,  was  filled  with  the  sound  of  rushing  feet, 
confused  voices,  lost  in  the  agitation  of  that  warn- 
ing. From  the  shade  of  the  vestibules  where  some 
were  still  sleeping,  the  servants  sprang  forth,  with 
sticks,  scythes,  flails,  making  them  ring  on  all  the 


156  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

metal  utensils  they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  copper 
caldrons,  warming-pans,  saucepans.  The  shep- 
herds blew  their  pipes  in  the  pastures.  Others 
had  conch-shells  and  hunting-horns.  The  uproar 
was  frightful,  discordant,  while  high  above  it  all 
rang  the  shrill  high  note,  the  "  Yoo  !  yoo  !  yoo  ! " 
of  the  Arab  women  rushing  in  from  a  neighbour- 
ing douar.  It  seems  that  often  a  great  noise,  a 
sonorous  jarring  of  the  air,  is  sufficient  to  drive  oft' 
the  locusts  and  prevent  them  from  alighting. 

But  where  were  they,  these  terrible  beasts  ?  In 
the  sky,  pulsing  with  heat,  I  saw  nothing  but  a 
cloud  on  the  horizon,  brassy,  compact  as  a  hail- 
cloud,  coming  on  with  the  noise  of  a  wind-storm 
through  the  branches  of  a  forest.  This  was  the 
locusts.  Supporting  one  another  with  their  dry 
extended  wings  they  flew  in  a  mass ;  and  in  spite 
of  our  shouts,  our  efforts,  on  they  came  in  a  cloud 
casting  upon  the  plain  an  enormous  shadow.  Soon 
they  arrived  above  us  and  we  saw  for  a  second  on 
the  edges  of  the  cloud  a  fringe,  a  rent.  Like  the 
first  stones  of  a  hailstorm,  a  few  detached  them- 
selves, distinct,  reddish;  then  the  whole  cloud 
broke  up  and  the  rain  of  insects  fell  thick  and 
noisily.  The  fields,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
were  covered  with  locusts,  enormous  locusts,  thick 
as  my  finger. 

Now  the  massacre  began.  A  horrid  sound  of 
crushing,  like  that  of  trampled  straw.  With  harrows, 
spades,  ploughs,  they  broke  up  that  living  soil ;  but 
the  more  they  killed,  the  more  there  were  to  kill. 
The  insects  swarmed  in  layers,  their  long  legs  laced 


The  Locusts.  157 

together.  Those  at  the  top  made  leaps  of  fear, 
jumping  at  the  noses  of  the  horses  harnessed  for 
this  strange  labour.  The  farm-dogs,  those  of  the 
douar,  driven  into  the  fields,  sprang  upon  them  and 
ground  them  furiously  with  their  teeth.  At  this 
moment  two  companies  of  Turcos,  bugles  sound- 
ing, came  to  the  succour  of  the  luckless  colonists 
and  the  butchery  changed  aspect. 

Instead  of  crushing  the  locusts  the  soldiers 
spread  long  trains  of  gunpowder  and  blew  them 
up. 

Weary  with  killing,  sickened  by  the  fetid  odour, 
I  returned  to  the  house.  Within  it  there  were 
almost  as  many  locusts  as  without.  They  had 
entered  by  the  doors,  the  windows,  the  flues  of 
the  chimney.  Along  the  panels  and  wainscot- 
ings,  in  the  curtains  already  riddled,  they  crawled, 
fell,  flew,  and  climbed  the  white  walls,  casting 
gigantic  shadows  that  doubled  their  ugliness. 
And  always  that  horrifying  odour.  We  were 
forced,  at  dinner,  to  go  without  water.  The  cis- 
terns, basins,  wells,  fish-pond  were  all  infected. 
That  night  in  my  room  where  quantities  had  been 
killed,  I  heard  them  swarming  under  the  furniture, 
with  that  crackling  of  their  shell-like  wings  which 
sounds  like  the  bursting  of  pods  under  heat. 
This  night  again  I  could  not  sleep.  Besides, 
every  one  on  the  farm  was  astir.  Flames  were 
running  along  the  surface  of  the  ground  in  all 
directions  from  one  end  of  the  plain  to  the  other. 
The  Turcos  were  still  killing. 

The  next  day,  when  I  opened  my  window  the 


158  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

locusts  were  gone;  but  what  ruin  they  had  left 
behind  them  !  Not  a  flower,  not  a  blade  of  grass ; 
all  was  black,  devoured,  calcined.  The  banana, 
the  apricot,  the  peach-trees,  the  orange-trees 
could  only  be  recognized  by  the  shape  of  their 
stripped  branches;  the  charm  and  the  floating 
grace  of  foliage  which  is  the  life  of  the  tree  were 
gone.  The  pieces  of  water  and  the  cisterns  were 
being  cleaned.  Everywhere  labourers  were  dig- 
ging the  earth  to  kill  the  eggs  laid  by  the  insects. 
Every  turf  was  turned,  and  carefully  broken  up. 
And  one's  heart  ached  to  see  the  thousand  white 
roots  full  of  sap  which  appeared  in  this  destruction 
of  the  fruitful  earth. 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher.         159 


THE    ELIXIR    OF   THE    REVEREND    PERE 
GAUCHER. 

"  Drink  that,  neighbour,  and  you  will  tell  -tales JV^ 
of  it." 

And  drop  by  drop,  with  the  minute  care  of  a 
lapidary  counting  pearls,  the  cure  of  Graveson 
poured  me  out  a  glassful  of  a  green,  gilded, 
warm,  sparkling,  exquisite  ttqt*euil_  My  stomach 
was  all  sunlit  by  it. 

"  That  is  the  elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher,  the  joy  and 
health  of  our  Provence,"  added  the  worthy  man 
with  a  triumphant  air.  "  It  is  made  at  the  convent 
of  the  Premontres,  two  leagues  from  your  mill. 
Isn't  it  worth  all  the  chartreuse  in  the  world?  If 
you  only  knew  how  amusing  it  is,  the  history  of 
that  elixir !     Listen,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you." 

Then,  very  artlessly  and  without  the  slightest 
malice,  sitting  there  in  the  dining-room  of  his  par- 
sonage, so  innocent  and  so  calm,  surrounded  by 
the  Way  of  the  Cross  in  little  pictures  and  his  white 
curtains  starched  like  a  surplice,  the  abbe  told 
me  the  following  rather  sceptical  and  irreverent 
narrative  after  the  style  of  a  tale  of  Erasmus 
or  d'Assoucy :  — 

Twenty  years  ago  the  Premontres,  or  rather  "  the 
White   Fathers "  as  they  are  called  in   Provence, 


1 60  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

had  fallen  into  great  poverty.  If  you  had  seen 
their  house  in  those  days  you  would  have  grieved 
over  it. 

The  great  wall  and  the  Pacome  tower,  were  dis- 
appearing in  fragments.  All  around  the  cloister, 
overgrown  with  grass,  the  columns  were  splitting 
and  the  stone  saints  crumbling  in  their  niches. 
Not  a  window  left;  not  a  door  that  closed. 
Through  the  yards,  in  the  chapels,  the  Rhone 
wind  blew  as  it  does  in  Camargue,  extinguishing 
the  tapers,  bending  the  lead  of  the  sashes,  driving 
the  water  from  the  holy  basins.  But,  saddest  of 
all,  was  the  steeple  of  the  convent,  silent  as  an 
empty  pigeon-house;  and  the  fathers,  for  want 
of  money  to  buy  them  a  bell,  were  forced  to  ring 
for  matins  with  wooden  castanets. 

Poor  White  Fathersil can^see  them  now  in 
the  procession  of  the  FeTe-Dieu,  aefiling  sadly  in 
their  ragged  cloaks,  pale,  thin,  fed  on  pumpkins 
and  water-melons ;  and  behind  them  Monseigneur 
the  abbot,  coming  along  with  his  head  down, 
ashamed  to  show  in  the  sun  his  tarnished  cross 
and  his  white  woollen  mitre,  all  moth-eaten.  The 
ladies  of  the  Confraternity  wept  for  pity  in  the 
ranks,  and  the  portly  standard-bearers  scoffed 
among  themselves  under  their  breaths  as  they 
pointed  to  those  poor  monks :  —  * 

C  "  Starlings  get  thin  when  they  live  in  flocks.*/ 

The  fact  is,  the  unfortunate  White  Fathers  had 
themselves  begun  to  ask  whether  it  were  not  better 
to  break  up  the  community,  and  each  take  his  flight 
alone  through  the  world  in  search  of  a  living. 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher.         1 6 1 

One  day,  when  this  grave  question  was  being 
discussed  by  the  Chapter,  someone  entered  anpL 
announced  to  the  prior  that  ^rerei^u^erasked  ^ 
to  be  heard  before  the  council.  You  must  know, 
to  guide  you,  that  Frere  Gaucher  was  the  cattle- 
keeper  of  the  convent;  that  is  to  say,  he  spent S 
his  days  going  from  arcade  to  arcade  of  the  clois- 
ters, driving  before  him  two  emaciated  cows  to 
browse  upon  the  grass  in  the  cracks  of  the  pave- 
ment. Brought  up  till  he  was  twelve  years  old  by 
an  old  crazy  woman  of  the  region,  who  was  called 
Tante  Begon,  received  at  that  age  into  the  con- 
vent, the  luckless  lad  had  never  learned  anything 
except  how  to  drive  his  beasts  and  say  his  Pater- 
noster ;  and  the  latter  he  said  in  Provencal,  for  his 
brain  and  his  mind  were  as  hard  and  dull  as  a 
leaden  dirk.  Fervent  Christian,  however,  though 
a  little  visionary;  living  with  comfort  in  a  hair 
shirt,  and  flagellating  himself  with  robust  convic- 
tion, and  with  such  an  arm  ! 

When  he  was  seen  to  enter  the  Chapter  room, 
simple  and  stolid,  bowing  to  the  assembly  with  his 
leg  behind  him,  prior,  canons  and  bursar  they  all 
began  to  laugh.  That  was  usually  the  effect  pro- 
duced, wherever  seen,  of  that  good,  kind  face  with 
its  grizzled  goat's-beard  and  its  rather  crazy  eyes. 
Frere  Gaucher  himself  was  unmoved. 

"  My  Reverends,"  he  said  in  his  simple  way, 
twisting  his  chaplet  of  olive-stones^  *(  it  is  a  true 
saying  that  empty  casks  hum  loudest.  ^  Would  you 
believe  it,  by  dint  of  digging  into  my  poor  head, 
which  was  hollow  enough  already,  I  believe  I  have 


1 62  Letters  from  My  Mill.. 

found  a  way  to  get  us  out  of  our  difficulties.  This 
is  how:  You  all  knew  Tante  Begon,  that  worthy 
woman  who  took  care  of  me  when  I  was  young 
(God  rest  her  soul,  the  old  slut!  she  used  to  sing 
villanous  songs  when  drunk).  I  have  to  tell  you, 
my  reverend  fathers,  that  Tante  Begon,  in  her 
lifetime,  knew  as  much  and  more,  about  moun- 
tain herbs  as  a  Corsican  blackbird ;  so  that  in  her 
last  days  she  concocted  an  incomparable  elixir  by 
mixing  together  five  or  six  species  of  simples 
which  she  and  I  used  to  go  and  gather  on  the 
Alpilles.  That 's  many  fine  years  agone ;  but  I 
think  that  with  the  help  of  Saint  Augustine  and 
the  permission  of  our  Father-abbot,  I  may  be  able, 
by  careful  search,  to  remember  the  composition 
of  that  mysterious  elixir.  If  so,  we  should  need 
only  to  put  it  in  bottles  and  sell  it  rather  dear  to 
enrich  the  community  gently,  gently,  like  our 
brethren  of  La  Trappe  and  the  Grand  —  " 

He  was  not  allowed  to  finish.  The  prior  rose 
and  fell  upon  his  neck.  The  canons  grasped  his 
hands.  The  bursar,  more  excited  than  even  the 
others,  kissed  respectfully  the  ragged  edge  of  his 
cassock.  Then  they  all  returned  to  their  seats  to 
deliberate;  and  before  the  session  broke  up  the 
Chapter  decided  to  intrust  the  cows  to  Frere 
Thrasybulus,  in  order  to  enable  Frere  Gaucher  to 
give  himsejf  wholly  to  the  making  of  his  elixir. 

How  did  the  good  brother  manage  to  recover 
the  recipe  of  Tante  B6gon  ?  —  at  the  cost  of  what 
efforts?  what  vigils?     History  saith  not.     But  what 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher.       163 

is  certain  is,  that  by  the  end  of  six  months  the 
liqueur  of  the  White  Fathers  was  already  very 
popular.  Throughout  the  Comtat,  throughout  the 
whole  region  of  Aries,  not  a  farm,  not  a  granary 
that  did  not  have  in  its  storeroom,  among  bottles  L^*"" 
of  boiled  wine  and  jars  of  pickled  olives,  a  little 
brown  flask,  sealed  with  the  arms  of  Provence,  and 
bearing  the  effigy  on  a  silver  ticket  of  a  monk  in 
ecstasy.  Thanks  to  the  vogue  of  its  elixir,  the 
convent  of  the  Premontres  grew  rich  very  rapidly. 
The  Pacome  tower  was  rebuilt;  the  prior  had  a 
new  mitre,  the  church  certain  handsome  painted 
windows;  and  within  the  delicate  tracery  of  the 
steeple  a  whole  company  of  bells  alighted  one  fine 
Easter  morning,  carolling  and  tintinnabulating  in 
joyful  peals. 

As  for  Frere  Gaucher,  that  poor  lay  brother, 
whose  rusticities  had  so  long  enlivened  the  Chapter, 
there  was  no  thought  of  him  any  longer.  Hence- 
forth he  was  known  as  the  Reverend  Pere  Gaucher, 
man  of  intellect  and  great  learning,  who  lived  com- 
pletely apart  from  the  petty  and  manifold  occu- 
pations of  the  cloister,  shut  up  all  day  in  his 
laboratory,  while  thirty  monks  were  roaming  the 
hills  in  search  of  his  odorous  srmpSes.  This  labora- 
tory, into  which  no  one,  not  even  the  prior,  was 
allowed  to  enter,  was  an  old  abandoned  chapel  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  canons'  garden.  The  sim- 
plicity of  the  good  fathers  made  something  mys- 
terious and  formidable  out  of  it ;  and  if,  by  way  of 
adventure,  an  occasional  little  monk,  bold  and 
inquisitive,  climbed  among  the  vines  to  the  rose- 


r64  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

window  of  the  portal,  he  slid  down  very  hastily, 
terrified,  on  catching  sight  of  Pere  Gaucher,  with 
a  necromantic  beard,  stooping  over  his  boilers, 
hydrometer  in  hand,  and,  all  around  him,  retorts 
of  rose-marble,  gigantic  stills,  coils  of  crystal  pipe, 
—  a  fantastic  medley  which  flamed  like  witchcraft 
through  the  red  glare  of  the  painted  window. 

At  close  of  day,  while  the  last  Angelus  was 
ringing,  the  door  of  this  place  of  mystery  opened 
discreetly,  and  the  Reverend  took  his  way  to  the 
church  for  evening  service.  'T  was  a  sight  to  see 
the  greeting  he  received  as  he  crossed  the  monas- 
tery !  The  brethren  lined  up  in  hedges  along  his 
way,  whispering:  — 

"  Hush  !  he  knows  the  secret !   .  .  " 

The  bursar  followed  and  spoke  to  him  with 
bowed  head.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  adulation  the 
worthy  father  advanced,  mopping  his  forehead,  his 
three-cornered  shovel  hat  tipped  back  around  his 
head  like  a  halo,  while  he  himself  looked  com- 
placently about  him  on  the  great  courtyards  now 
full  of  orange-trees,  the  blue  slate  roofs  where  the 
new  vanes  were  twirling,  and  the  cloister  —  daz- 
zlingly  white  between  its  elegant  and  floriated 
columns  —  where  the  canons  in  their  new  gowns 
filed  along,  two  and  two  with  placid  faces. 

"  It  is  to  me  that  they  owe  it  all !  "  thought  the 
Reverend,  and  every  time  he  did  so,  the  thought 
sent  puffs  of  pride  into  his  heart. 

The  poor  man  was  well  punished  for  it.  You 
shall  see  feesK. 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher.       165 

Picture  to  yourself  that  one   evening  after  the 

■  service  had  begun,  he  arrived  at  the  church  in  a 

■  state  of  extraordinary  agitation:  red,  out  of  breath, 

■  his  hood  awry,  and  so  bewildered  that  in  taking 

■  holy  water  he  soaked  his  sleeves  to  the  elbow. 
I  At  first  it  was  thought  to  be  emotion  at  coming 
I  late  to  church ;  but  when  he  was  seen  to  bow  low 

to  the  organ  and  to  the  stalls  instead  of  doing  rever- 
|  ence  to  the  altar,  to  rush  through  the  nave  like  a 
whirlwind  and  wander  about  the  choir  unable  to 
find  his  stall,  and  then,  once  seated,  to  bow  to  right 
and  left,  smiling  beatifically,  a  murmur  of  amaze- 
ment ran  through  the  aisles.  From  breviary  to 
breviary  the  whisper  flew :  — 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Pere  Gaucher?  What 
can  be  the  matter  with  our  Pere  Gaucher?" 

Twice  the  prior,  much  annoyed,  dropped  the 
end  of  his  crozier  on  the  pavement  to  order  silence. 
In  the  choir  the  psalms  were  going  on  all  right, 
but  the  responses  lacked  vigour. 

All  of  a  sudden,  in  the  middle  of  the  Ave  verum, 
behold  Pere  Gaucher  flinging  himself  back  in  his 
stall  and  singing  out  in  a  startling  voice :  — 

"  Dans  Paris,  il  y  a  un  Pere  Blanc, 
Patatin,  patatan,  tarabin,  taraban.  .  ." 

General  consternation.  Every  one  rose,  shout- 
ing out :  — 

"  Take  him  away !  he  's  possessed  of  the  devil !  " 

The  canons  crossed  themselves.     Monseigneur's 

crozier  rapped  furiously.     But  Pere  Gaucher  saw 

nothing,  heard  nothing;   and  two  vigorous  monks 


1 66  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

were  forced  to  drag  him  away  through  the  little 
door  of  the  choir  fighting  like  a  maniac  and  shout- 
ing louder  than  ever  his  patatin,  taraban. 

The  next  day,  at  dawn,  the  unhappy  man  was 
y^on  his  knees  in  the  prior's  oratory,  making  his  mea 
culpa  with  torrents  of  tears. 

"  'T  was  the  elixir,  Monseigneur ;  the  elixir  over- 
came me,"  he  said,  striking  his  breast.  And  see- 
ing him  so  heart-broken,  so  repentant,  the  good 
prior  himself  was  much  moved. 

"  Come,  come,  Pere  Gaucher,  be  calm ;  it  will 
all  dry  up  like  dew  in  the  sun.  After  all,  the 
scandal  was  not  as  great  as  you  think.  It  is  true 
the  song  was  a  little  —  hum  !  hum  !  But  let  us 
hope  the  novices  didn't  understand  it.  And  now, 
tell  me,  please,  how  the  thing  happened.  .  .  In 
trying  the  elixir,  was  it?  You  must  have  had  too 
heavy  a  hand.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Like 
Schwartz,  inventor  of  gunpowder,  you  were  the  vic- 
tim of  your  own  invention.  But  tell  me,  my  good 
friend,  is  it  really  necessary  that  you  should  try  the 
elixir  on  yourself?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  Monseigneur,  though  the  gauge 
will  give  me  the  strength  and  degree  of  the  alco- 
hol, I  can't  trust  anything  but  my  own  palate  for 
the  taste,  the  velvet  of  the  thing." 

"Ah!  very  well.  .  .  But  listen  to  me.  When  you 
taste  the  elixir  thus,  from  necessity,  does  it  seem  to 
you  nice?     Do  you  take  pleasure  in  tasting  it?  " 

"  Alas !  yes,  Monseigneur,"  cried  the  hapless 
father,  turning  scarlet.     "For  the  last  two  nights 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher,       167 

it  has  had  an  aroma,  a  bouquet !  .  .  I  am  cer- 
tain it  is  the  devil  himself  who  has  played  me  this 
vile  trick.  And  that 's  why  I  am  fully  determined 
to  use  nothing  but  the  gauge  henceforth.  No 
-matter  if  the  liqueur  is  not  as  good.  .  .  " 

"That  will  never  do,"  interrupted  the  prior 
eagerly.  "  We  must  n't  expose  ourselves  to  the 
discontent  of  customers.  You  must  be  careful, 
now  that  you  are  warned,  to  be  upon  your  guard. 
Come,  how  much  do  you  need  for  the  test?  Fif- 
teen, or  twenty  drops  ?  call  it  twenty.  The  devil 
will  be  pretty  clever  to  catch  you  with  twenty 
drops.  .  .  Besides,  to  avoid  all  accidents,  I  ex- 
empt you  from  coming  to  church  any  more.  You 
will  say  the  evening  service  by  yourself  in  the  lab- 
oratory. .  .  And  now,  go  in  peace,  my  Reverend, 
but,  above  all,  —  count  your  drops." 

Alas !  —  in  vain  did  the  poor  Reverend  count 
his  drops ;  the  demon  had  him  fast  and  would  not 
let  him  go. 

The  laboratory  heard  queer  things ! 

In  the  daytime  all  went  well.  Pere  Gaucher 
was  calm;  he  prepared  his  chafing-dishes,  his 
distillers,  sorted  his  herbs  carefully  —  all  of  them 
Provencal  herbs,  delicate,  gray,  dentelled,  full  of 
fragrance  and  sunshine.  But  at  night,  when  the 
simples  were  infused,  and  the  elixir  was  simmering 
in  those  great  copper  basins,  the  martyrdom  of  the 
poor  man  began. 

"  Seventeen  .  .  .  eighteen  .  .  .  nineteen  ,  ,  « 
twenty ! .  ." 


1 68  Letters  from  My  Mill 

The  drops  fell  one  by  one  into  the  silver-gilt 
goblet.  Those  twenty,  the  Father  swallowed  at  a 
gulp,  almost  without  any  pleasure.  It  was  only  the 
twenty-first  which  he  coveted.  Oh  !  that  twenty- 
first  drop  !  .  .  To  escape  temptation  he  went  and 
knelt  at  the  farther  end  of  the  laboratory  and  buried 
himself  in  his  paternosters.  But  the  warm  liqueur 
still  sent  up  a  little  steam  laden  with  aromatic  per- 
fumes, which  floated  around  and  brought  him, 
nolens  volens,  back  to  the  pans.  .  .  The  liqueur  was 
then  of  a  beautiful  golden  green.  .  .  Stooping 
over  it,  with  flaring  nostrils,  Pere  Gaucher  stirred 
it  gently  with  his  blowpipe  and  in  the  golden 
sparkles  that  rolled  in  that  emerald  stream  he 
seemed  to  see  the  eyes  of  Tante  B6gon,  laughing 
and  snapping  out  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Come,  take  another  drop  !  " 

And  from  drop  to  drop,  the  luckless  man  ended 
by  filling  his  goblet  to  the  brim.  Then,. overcome 
at  last,  he  let  himself  fall  into  a  big  arm-chair,  and 
there,  helpless  in  body,  with  eyelids  half-closed, 
he  sipped  his  sin  slowly,  saying  to  himself  in  whim- 
pered tones  with  delicious  remorse  :  — 

"  Ah  !   I  Ve  damned  myself —  I  'm  damned." 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  at  the  bottom  of  that 
diabolical  elixir  he  found,  by  I  don't  know  what 
witchcraft,  all  the  vile  songs  of  Tante  Begon,  and 
among  them,  invariably,  the  famous  rondo  of  the 
White  Fathers :   Patatin,  patatan. 

Imagine  what  confusion  the  next  day  when  his 
cell  neighbours  would  say,  maliciously :  — 

"  Hey !  hey  !  Pere  Gaucher,  you  had  grasshop- 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher.       169 

»ers   in  your  head   when  you  went   to   bed   last 
light" 

Then  followed  tears,  despair,  fasts,  hair-shirts, 
nd  flagellations.  But  nothing  availed  against  the 
lemon  of  that  elixir.  Every  evening  at  the  same 
lour  the  demoniacal  possession  was  renewed. 

During  this  time,  orders  rained  on  the  monastery 
ike  a  benediction.  They  came  from  Nimes,  Aix, 
\vignon,  Marseille.  Day  by  day  the  place  as- 
sumed, more  and  more,  the  air  of  a  manufactory. 
There  were  packing  brothers,  labelling  broth- 
ers, corresponding  brothers,  and  carting  brothers. 
God's  service  lost,  this  way  and  that,  a  good  many 
strokes  of  the  bell ;  but  the  poor  of  the  region  lost 
nothing  at  all,  I  can  tell  you  that. 

However,  one  fine  Sunday  morning,  just  as  the 
bursar  was  reading  to  the  assembled  Chapter  his 
account  for  the  end  of  the  year,  and  while  all  the 
good  canons  were  listening  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
smiles  upon  their  lips,  Pere  Gaucher  burst  in  upon 
the  conference,  crying  out :  — 

"  Enough,  enough  !  I  '11  do  it  no  more  !  Give 
me  back  my  cows." 

"What's  the  matter,  Pere  Gaucher?"  asked  the 
prior,  who  suspected  what  it  was. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Monseigneur?  Why  this: 
that  I  am  on  the  road  to  a  fine  eternity  of  flames 
and  pitchforks.  The  matter  is  that  I  drink,  and 
drink  like  a  wmrink  —  ,y  y^y^kjl<^ij-\_  5   >.  *  „ 

"  But  I  told  you  to  count  your  drops." 

"  Count  my  drops,  indeed  !     It  is  goblets  I  count 


170  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

by  now.  .  .  Yes,  my  Reverends,  I  've  come  to 
that.  .  .  Three  flasks  a  night.  .  .  You  see  for 
yourselves  it  can't  go  on.  .  .  Therefore,  make  the 
elixir  by  whom  you  will.  May  God's  fire  burn  me 
if  I  touch  it  again." 

The  Chapter  did  not  laugh  this  time. 

"  But,  unhappy  man,  you  will  ruin  us,"  cried 
the  bursar,  flourishing  his  big  book. 

"  Do  you  prefer  that  I  should  damn  myself  ?  " 

On  that  the  prior  rose. 

"  My  Reverends,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand- 
some white  hand  on  which  shone  the  pastoral  ring. 
"  There  is  a  way  to  arrange  all  this.  .  .  It  is  in 
the  evening,  is  it  not,  my  dear  son,  that  the  demon 
tempts  you?" 

"Yes,  Monseigneur,  regularly,  every  evening. 
So  that  now,  when  evening  comes,  I  have,  saving 
your  presence,  great  sweats,  like  Capitou's  donkey 
when  she  sees  her  load." 

"  Well,  be  comforted.  In  future,  every  even- 
ing at  service-time,  we  will  recite  on  your  behalf 
the  orison  of  Saint  Augustine,  to  which  plen- 
ary indulgence  is  attached.  With  that,  whatever 
happens,  you  are  safe.  It  is  absolution  during 
the  sin." 

"  Oh  !  if  that  is  so,  thank  you,  Monseigneur." 

And  without  another  word  Pere  Gaucher  re- 
turned to  his  distillery  as  gay  as  a  lark. 

From  that  moment,  every  evening  at  the  end 
of  complines,  the  officiating  priest  never  failed  to 
say:  — 

"  Let  us  pray  for  our  poor  Pere  Gaucher,  who 


The  Elixir  of  Pere  Gaucher,       171 

is  sacrificing  his  soul  for  the  interests  of  the  com- 
munity:  OremuSy  Domine  .  .    " 

And  while  over  all  the  white  hoods  prostrate 
in  the  shadows  of  the  nave  Saint  Augustine's 
prayer  passed  quivering,  like  a  little  breeze  over 
snow,  on  the  other  side  of  the  convent,  behind  the 
glowing  windows  of  the  laboratory  Pere  Gaucher 
could  be  heard  singing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs :  — 

"  Dans  Paris  il  y  a  un  Pere  Blanc, 

Patatin,  patatan,  taraban,  tarabin  ; 

Dans  Paris  il  y  a  un  Pere  Blanc 

Qui  fait  danser  des  moinettes, 

Trin,  trin,  trin,  dans  un  jardin 

Qui  fait  danser  des  —  " 

Here  the  good  father  stopped,  terrified. 
"  Mercy  upon   me !    suppose   my   parishioners 
were  to  overhear  that !  " 


172  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


IN   CAMARGUE. 

TO  MY   FRIEND  TlMOLEON  AMBROY. 

I. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

GREAT  excitement  at  the  chateau.  A  messenger 
has  just  brought  a  line  from  the  gamekeeper,  half 
in  French,  half  in  Provencal,  announcing  that 
already  three  or  four  flocks  of  galejons  and  char- 
lottines  have  passed,  and  that  birds  of  prime  were 
not  lacking.  From  that  instant  everybody  had 
the  fever.  One  got  ready  the  cartridges,  another 
tried  on  the  leggings.  In  large  baskets,  carefully 
handled  on  account  of  the  bottles  wrapped  in 
straw,  provisions  were  heaped,  heaped,  as  if  we 
were  starting  for  the  desert.  At  last,  all  was 
ready.  One  morning,  in  a  four  o'clock  dawn,  the 
break  drew  up  before  the  portico. 

In  the  yards,  only  half  awake,  the  dogs  were 
leaping  with  joy  and  pressing  against  the  railings 
at  sight  of  the  guns.  Old  Miracle,  the  dean  of  the 
kennels,  Ramette,  Miraclet,  take  their  places  be- 
tween our  legs,  and  presently  we  are  bowling  along 
the  road  to  Aries,  a  little  dusty  and  a  little  barren 
on  this  December  morning  when  the  pallid  verdure 


In  Camargue,  173 

of  the  olive-trees  is  scarcely  visible,  and  the  crude 
green  of  the  scarlet  oak  looks  unreal  and  wintry. 
The  stables  are  all  astir.  Risers  before  dawn  are 
lighting  up  the  windows  of  the  farmhouses ;  and 
beneath  the  arches  of  the  abbey  of  Montmajour 
ospreys,  still  torpid  with  sleep,  flap  their  wings 
among  the  ruins.  Already  we  are  meeting  old 
peasant-women  trotting  slowly  to  market  on  their 
donkeys.  They  come  from  Ville-des-Baux.  Six 
full  leagues  to  sit  an  hour  upon  the  steps  of  Saint- 
Trophyme  and  sell  their  little  bunches  of  simples 
gathered  on  the  mountain  ! 

And  now  here  we  are  at  the  ramparts  of  Aries ; 
low  crenelated  ramparts,  such  as  we  see  in  old 
engravings  where  warriors  armed  with  lances  ap- 
pear above  battlements  that  are  smaller  than  they. 
We  crossed  at  a  gallop  the  marvellous  little  town, 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  in  France  with  its 
carved  and  rounded  balconies  overhanging  the 
roadway  almost  to  the  centre  of  the  narrow  street, 
and  its  old  black  houses  with  the  little  Moorish  por- 
tals, low  and  pointed,  which  carry  you  back  to  the 
days  of  William  Short-Nose  and  the  Saracens. 

At  this  hour  no  one  is  in  the  streets.  The 
quay  of  the  Rhone  alone  is  lively.  The  steamer 
that  plies  to  the  Camargue  is  puffing  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  ready  to  be  off.  "  Men  of  all  work  " 
in  jackets  of  a  sort  of  brown  drugget,  girls  from 
the  Roquette  going  to  hire  themselves  out  on  the 
farms,  went  on  board  when  we  did,  laughing  and 
chattering.  Under  the  long,  brown,  and  hooded 
mantle,  drawn  close  because  of  the  sharp  morning 


i  74  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

air,  the  tall  Arlesian  head-dress  gives  a  small  and 
graceful  look  to  the  head,  with  a  touch  of  pretty 
sauciness  and  a  desire  to  toss  it,  as  if  to  fling  the 
laugh  or  the  jest  still  farther.  .  .  The  bell  rings ;  we 
start.  With  the  triple  speed  of  the  Rhone,  the  screw, 
and  the  mistral  the  two  shores  unfold  themselves 
rapidly.  On  one  side  is  Crau,  an  arid,  stony  plain. 
On  the  other  the  Camargue,  greener,  and  con- 
tinuing to  the  sea  its  short  grass  and  its  marshes 
full  of  reeds. 

From  time  to  time  the  vessel  stopped  near  a 
wharf,  to  right  or  left,  "  to  empire  or  kingdom," 
as  was  said  in  the  middle-ages,  in  the  days  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Aries,  and  as  the  old  mariners  of  the 
Rhone  still  say.  At  each  wharf,  a  white  farm- 
house and  cluster  of  trees.  The  labourers  go 
ashore  with  their  tools,  the  women,  baskets  on 
their  arms,  pass  erect  down  the  gangway.  Toward 
the  empire  or  toward  the  kingdom,  little  by 
little  the  boat  empties;  and  by  the  time  it  arrives 
at  Mas-de-Giraud,  where  we  landed,  there  was 
scarcely  any  one  on  board. 

The  Mas-de-Giraud  is  an  old  farm-house  of  the 
Seigneurs  of  Barbentane,  which  we  now  entered  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  gamekeeper,  who  was  to 
fetch  us  at  that  point.  In  the  lofty  kitchen,  labour- 
ers, vineyard-dressers,  shepherds  were  at  table; 
grave,  silent,  eating  slowly  and  served  by  women 
who  only  ate  after  them.  Soon  the  keeper  ap- 
peared with  the  carriole.  True  type  a  la  Feni- 
more,  trapper  on  earth  and  water,  fishkeeper  and 
gamekeeper,  the    people    of    the    country    round 


In  Camargue.  175 

called  him  "  lou  Roude'irou "  \le  rodeur,  the 
prowler]  because  he  was  always  to  be  seen  in  the 
mists  of  dawn  or  the  twilight  hour  on  watch,  hid- 
den among  the  bushes  or  else  motionless  in  his 
little  boat,  employed  in  observing  his  nets  on  the 
clairs  [the  ponds]  and  the  roubines  [canals  for 
irrigation].  It  was  perhaps  this  business  of  per- 
petual watching  that  made  him  so  silent,  so  self- 
contained.  Still,  while  the  little  carriole  loaded 
with  guns  and  baskets  rolled  along  in  front  of  us, 
he  gave  us  news  of  the  hunting,  the  number  oi 
passing  flocks,  and  the  places  where  the  migratory 
birds  had  alighted.  As  we  talked  we  were  ad- 
vancing deeper  into  the  country. 

The  cultivated  land  once  passed,  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  heart  of  the  wild  Camargue.  As  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach  among  the  pastures, 
marshes  and  irrigating  streams  glittered  through 
the  herbage.  Bunches  of  reeds  and  tamarisks  lay 
like  islands  on  the  bosom  of  a  calm  sea.  No  tall 
trees.  The  uniform  aspect  of  the  vast  plain  is 
unbroken.  Here  and  there  were  cattle-sheds  and 
sheepfolds,  stretches  of  low  roofs  almost  level  with 
the  ground.  The  scattered  herds  lying  on  the 
salty  grass,  or  the  flocks  pressing  closely  round 
the  russet  cape  of  the  shepherd,  did  not  interrupt 
the  great  uniformity,  diminished  as  they  were  by 
the  infinite  space  of  blue  horizons  and  the  open 
sky.  Like  the  sea,  uniform  in  spite  of  its  waves, 
the  plain  conveys  a  sense  of  solitude,  of  immensity, 
increased  by  the  mistral,  which  blows  without  re- 
laxing and  without  obstacle   and  by  its  powerful 


/ 

in 


1 76  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

breath  seems  to  flatten  and  so  widen  the  land- 
scape. Everything  bends  before  it.  The  smallest 
shrubs  keep  the  imprint  of  its  passage,  and  con- 
tinue twisted  and  bent  toward  the  south  in  an 
attitude  of  flight. 


n. 

THE  HUT. 

A  ROOF  of  reeds,  walls  of  reeds,  dry  and  yellow, 
that  is  the  hut.  This  is  the  name  we  give  to  our 
hunting-box.  Type  of  a  Camargue  house,  it  has 
but  one  room,  lofty,  vast,  and  no  window,  getting 
its  light  from  a  glass  door,  closed  at  night  with 
solid  shutters.  Along  the  great  plastered  walls 
freshly  whitewashed,  racks  await  the  guns,  game- 
bags,  and  marsh  boots.  At  the  farther  end  five  or 
six  cots  are  ranged  around  a  real  mast  planted  in 
the  ground  and  rising  to  the  roof,  which  it  sup- 
ports. At  night,  when  the  mistral  blows  and  the 
house  cracks  everywhere,  and  the  wind  brings 
with  it  the  roar  of  the  distant  sea,  increasing  and 
swelling  the  sound,  one  might  think  one's  self 
lying  in  the  cabin  of  a  boat. 

But  in  the  afternoon  it  is  that  the  hut  is  charm- 
ing. On  our  fine  days  of  Southern  winter,  I  like 
to  be  left  all  alone  near  the  high  chimney  where  a 
few  roots  of  tamarisk  are  smouldering.  Under 
the  assaults  of  the  mistral  or  the  tramontane,  the 
door  bursts  in,   the  reeds  cry  out,  and  all  these 


In  Camargue.  177 

little  shocks  are  a  mere  echo  of  the  great  agita- 
tions of  Nature  going  on  around  me.  The  winter 
sun  lashed  by  the  wind  scatters  itself,  joins  its 
beams,  and  again  disperses.  Great  shadows  flit 
beneath  a  glorious  blue  sky.  Light  comes  in 
jerks,  noises  also,  and  the  bells  of  the  flocks  heard 
suddenly,  then  forgotten,  lost  in  the  wind,  return 
to  sing  at  the  shaken  door  with  the  charm  of  a 
chorus.  The  exquisite  moment  is  the  twilight 
hour,  just  before  the  hunters  come  back.  Then 
the  wind  calms  down.  I  go  out  for  an  instant. 
In  peace  the  great  red  sun  descends,  flaming,  yet 
without  heat.  The  night  falls;  it  brushes  me  in 
passing  with  its  damp  black  wing.  Over  there,  at 
the  level  of  the  soil,  the  flash  of  a  gun  runs  along 
with  the  light  of  a  ruddy  star,  brightened  by  the 
environing  darkness.  For  the  rest  of  the  day,  life 
hastens.  A  long  triangle  of  ducks  fly  low,  as  if 
they  meant  to  take  to  earth,  but  the  hut,  where  the 
lantern  is  now  lighted,  keeps  them  away.  He  who 
heads  the  column  draws  in  his  neck  and  mounts, 
while  others  behind  him  utter  savage  and  angry 
cries.  \ 

Presently  an  immense  pattering  is  heard  like  a 
noise  of  rain.  Thousands  of  sheep,  called  in  by 
the  shepherd,  and  driven  by  the  dogs  whose  con- 
fused gallop  and  panting  breath  can  be  heard,  are 
hurrying  to  the  fold,  timid  and  undisciplined.  I 
am  invaded,  brushed  against,  surrounded  by  this 
cloud  of  curly  wool,  all  bleating;  a  perfect  mob,  in 
which  the  shepherds  and  their  shadows  seem  borne 
along  in  a  bounding  flood.    Behind  the  flock  come 


1 78  Letters  from  My  Mill 

well  known  voices,  joyous  voices.  The  hut  be- 
comes animated,  noisy.  The  roots  flame.  They 
laugh  the  most  who  are  most  weary.  It  is  a 
laughter  of  happy  fatigue,  guns  in  the  corner,  the 
great  boots  flung  away  pell-mell,  the  gamebags 
emptied,  and  close  beside  them,  plumages,  red, 
golden,  green,  silvery,  all  stained  with  blood.  The 
table  is  laid,  and  in  the  fumes  of  a  good  eel-soup 
silence  reigns;  the  silence  of  robust  appetites, 
interrupted  only  by  the  ferocious  growls  of  the 
dogs  lapping  their  porringers  before  the  door. 

The  evening  will  be  short.  Already  no  one  is 
left  but  the  keeper  and  myself  beside  the  fire,  and 
that  is  blinking.  We  talk,  or  rather,  we  toss  to  each 
other,  now  and  then,  the  half-words  that  charac- 
terize the  peasantry,  interjections  almost  Indian, 
short  and  quickly  extinct,  like  the  sparkles  of  the 
now  consumed  roots.  At  last  the  keeper  rises, 
lights  his  lantern,  and  I  hear  his  heavy  step  going 
out  into  the  darkness. 


III. 

a  l'espere!     (on  the  watch.) 

L'Espere!  —  hope!  —  what  a  pretty  name  by 
which  to  describe  the  watch,  the  expectation  of 
the  ambushed  huntsman  and  those  undecided  hours 
when  everything  waits,  hopes,  hesitates  between 
day  and  night.  The  watch  of  the  morning  a  little 
before   sunrise,  the  watch  of  the  evening  in  the 


In  Camargue,  179 

twilight !  It  is  the  latter  that  I  prefer,  especially 
in  this  marshy  region,  where  the  ponds  hold  the 
light  so  long. 

Sometimes  the  watch  is  kept  in  the  negochin,  a 
very  small  boat,  narrow,  without  keel,  and  rolling  at 
the  slightest  motion.  Sheltered  by  the  reeds,  the 
sportsman  watches  for  the  ducks  lying  in  his  boat, 
above  which  nothing  is  seen  but  the  visor  of  a  cap, 
the  muzzle  of  a  gun,  and  the  head  of  a  dog  snuff- 
ing the  wind,  snapping  at  the  gnats,  or  else,  with 
his  big  paws  extended,  hanging  over  the  side  of 
the  boat  and  filling  it  with  water.  That  watch  is 
too  complicated  for  my  inexperience.  So  I  usu- 
ally go  to  the  esphe  on  foot,  paddling  through 
the  marsh  in  those  enormous  boots  that  are  cut 
from  the  whole  length  of  the  leather.  I  walk 
slowly,  cautiously,  for  fear  of  being  sucked  in.  I 
push  through  the  reeds  full  of  briny  odours  where 
the  frogs  are  hopping. 

At  last  here  's  an  island  of  tamarisks,  a  spot  of 
dry  earth,  where  I  install  myself.  The  keeper,  to 
do  me  honour,  leaves  me  his  dog,  a  huge  dog  of 
the  Pyrenees  with  a  great  white  coat,  hunter  and 
fisher  of  the  highest  order,  whose  presence  does 
not  fail  to  intimidate  me  slightly.  When  a  water- 
fowl passes  within  aim  of  my  gun  he  has  a  certain 
sarcastic  way  of  looking  at  me ;  throwing  back, 
with  an  artist's  toss  of  the  head,  the  long,  limp 
ears  that  overhang  his  eyes ;  then  he  poses  to  a 
point  with  a  quivering  motion  of  his  tail  and  a 
whole  pantomime  of  impatience,  which  says  to  me, 
"  Fire  !     Come,   fire !  "     I    fire    and    miss.     Then, 


i8o  Letters  from  My  Mill 

lying  down  at  full  length,  he  yawns  and  stretches 
with  a  weary,  discouraged,  and  insolent  air. 

Well,  yes  !  I  admit  that  I  am  a  bad  sportsman. 
The  watch,  for  me,  means  the  falling  day,  the  fad- 
ing light  taking  refuge  in  the  water,  in  the  ponds 
that  gleam,  polishing  to  silvery  tones  the  gray 
tints  of  a  sombre  sky.  I  love  that  smell  of  water, 
the  mysterious  rustle  of  insects  in  the  reeds,  the 
little  murmur  of  the  long  leaves  waving.  From 
time  to  time  a  sad  note  passes,  rolling  through 
the  sky  like  the  rumbling  sounds  in  a  sea-shell. 
It  is  the  bittern,  plunging  into  the  water  his  im- 
mense, fisher-bird's  beak  and  snorting — rrrououou  ! 
Flocks  of  cranes  file  above  my  head.  I  hear  the 
rustle  of  wings,  the  ruffling  of  down  in  the  clear 
air;  then  nothing.  It  is  night,  profound  darkness, 
except  for  a  gleam  still  lingering  on  the/^ater. 

Suddenly  I  am  conscious  of  a  quiver,  a  sort  of  ner- 
vous sensation,  as  if  some  one  were  behind  me.  I 
turn,  and  see  the  companion  of  beautiful  nights,  the 
moon,  a  large  moon,  quite  round,  rising  gently  with 
an  ascending  motion,  at  first  very  perceptible,  then 
apparently  diminishing  as  she  leaves  the  horizon. 

Already  the  first  ray  is  distinct  beside  me,  and 
another  is  a  little  farther  off.  .  .  .  Presently  the 
whole  swamp  ,'s  illuminated.  The  smallest  tuft  of 
grass  casts  its  shadow.  The  watch  is  over,  the 
birds  see  us ;  we  return.  We  walk  in  the  midst  of 
an  inundation,  a  dust,  of  vaporous  blue  light,  and 
every  step  in  the  pools  and  the  marches  scatters 
the  stars  and  the  moon-rays  which  lie  in  the  watef 
to  its  depths. 


In  Camargue,  181 


IV. 

THE  RED  AND  THE  WHITE. 

CLOSE  to  us,  within  gunshot  of  the  hut  is  an- 
other hut  which  resembles  ours,  but  is  more  rustic. 
It  is  there  that  the  gamekeeper  lives  with  his  wife 
and  elder  children.  The  daughter  attends  to  the 
feeding  of  the  men  and  mends  the  fishing-nets; 
the  son  helps  his  father  to  take  up  the  seines  and 
watch  the  sluices  of  the  ponds.  The  two  younger 
children  are  at  Aries  with  their  grandmother,  and 
there  they  will  stay  till  they  have  learned  to  read  and 
have  made  their  bonjour  [good  day,  first  commun- 
ion] ;  for  here  their  parents  are  too  far  from  church 
and  school,  and  besides,  the  air  of  the  Camargue 
would  not  be  good  for  the  little  ones.  The  fact  is 
that  in  summer,  when  the  marshes  dry  up  and 
the  white  clay  of  the  pools  cracks  in  the  great 
heat,  the  island  is  scarcely  habitable. 

I  saw  that  once  in  the  month  of  August  when  I 
came  to  shoot  young  wild-duck;  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  sad,  ferocious  aspect  of  the  burnt-up 
landscape.  From  place  to  place  the  empty  ponds 
smoked  in  the  sun  like  monstrous  vats,  keeping 
low  at  their  bottom  a  remainder  of  water,  of  life, 
which  stirred  with  a  crawling  swarm  of  salaman- 
ders, spiders,  and  water-beetles  seeking  for  damp 
spots.     At  the  keeper's  house  all  were  shivering, 


1 82  Letters  from  My  Mill, 

each  had  the  fever;  and  it  was  really  piteous  to 
see  those  drawn,  yellow  faces,  the  black-circled 
eyes  of  those  poor  unfortunates,  compelled  to  drag 
themselves  about  for  three  months  under  an  inex- 
orable sun  which  burned  the  sufferers  but  did  not 
warm  them.  Dreary  and  painful  life  is  that  of  a 
gamekeeper  in  Camargue !  This  one  at  least  had 
his  wife  and  children  with  him;  but  two  leagues 
farther  on,  in  a  marsh,  lives  a  horse-keeper,  abso- 
lutely alone  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other 
—  a  Robinson-Crusoe  existence.  In  his  hut  of 
reeds,  which  he  built  himself,  there  is  not  a  utensil 
he  did  not  make,  from  the  braided  osier  hammock, 
the  fireplace  of  three  stones,  the  roots  of  tama- 
risk cut  into  stools,  to  even  the  lock  and  key  of 
white  wood  which  close  this  singular  habitation. 

The  man  is  as  strange  as  his  dwelling.  He  is  a 
species  of  philosopher,  silent  as  a  hermit,  shelter- 
ing his  peasant  distrust  of  every  one  behind  his 
bushy  eyebrows.  When  he  is  not  in  the  pastures 
you  will  find  him  seated  before  his  door,  decipher- 
ing slowly,  with  childish  and  touching  application, 
one  of  those  little  pink,  blue,  or  yellow  pamphlets 
which  wrap  the  pharmaceutical  phials  he  procures 
for  his  horses.  Though  the  huts  are  near  together, 
our  keeper  and  he  never  visit  each  other.  They 
even  avoid  meeting.  One  day  I  asked  the  rou- 
deirou  the  reason  of  this  antipathy.  He  answered 
gravely:  "On  account  of  opinions:  he  is  red;  I 
am  white." 

So  in  this  desert,  where  solitude  might  have 
brought  them  together,  these  two  savages,  both 


In  Camargue.  183 

ignorant,  both  naive,  these  two  herdsmen  of  The- 
ocritus, who  go  to  the  city  scarcely  once  a  year, 
and  to  whom  the  little  cafes  of  Aries,  with  their 
mirrors  and  their  gilding,  are  as  dazzling  as  the 
palace  of  the  Ptolemies,  have  found  means  to  hate 
each  other  on  account  of  their  political  convictions. 


V. 

THE  VACCARES. 

The  finest  thing  in  the  Camargue  is  the  Vac- 
cares.  Often,  abandoning  the  hunt,  I  go  and  sit 
on  the  shore  of  that  salt  lake,  a  little  sea  like  a  bit 
of  the  ocean  captured  and  shut  in  by  earth  and 
content  with  its  captivity.  In  place  of  the  dryness, 
the  aridity  that  casts  sadness  everywhere,  the 
Vaccares,  with  its  rather  high  banks,  green  with  a 
velvety  fine  grass,  exhibits  an  original  and  charm- 
ing flora,  centaureas,  water-trefoil,  gentians,  and 
the  pretty  saladelle,  blue  in  winter,  red  in  summer, 
which  changes  colour  with  change  of  atmosphere, 
and  in  its  ceaseless  blooming  marks  the  seasons 
with  diverse  tints. 

Towards  five  in  the  afternoon,  as  the  sun  de- 
clines, these  three  leagues  of  water,  without  a  boat, 
without  a  sail  to  limit  them,  transform  their  extent 
and  take  on  a  charming  aspect.  It  is  no  longer 
the  charm  of  the  pools  and  the  ponds  appearing 
now  and  then  in  a  dip  of  the  marly  soil,  beneath 
which  one  feels  the  water  percolating.     Here  the 


184  Letters  from  My  Mill. 

impression  is  broad  and  fine.  From  afar  this  radi- 
ance of  water  allures  great  flocks  of  divers,  bitterns, 
herons,  flamingoes  with  white  bosoms  and  rose- 
coloured  wings,  all  standing  in  line  to  fish  along  the 
shore  in  a  manner  that  exhibits  their  various  tints 
in  a  long  even  strip.  Also  the  ibis,  the  true  Egyp- 
tian ibis,  who  feel  themselves  much  at  home  in  the 
silent  landscape  beneath  that  splendid  sun.  From 
the  place  where  I  lay  I  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
water  rippling  and  the  voice  of  the  keeper,  calling 
to  his  scattered  horses  on  the  brink.  They  all  had 
resounding  names :  "  Cifer !  (Lucifer)  Estello  ! 
Estournello  !  "  Each  animal,  hearing  itself  called, 
came  galloping  up,  mane  streaming,  to  eat  his  oats 
from  the  hand  of  the  keeper. 

Farther  on,  still  on  the  same  shore,  was  a  vast 
herd  of  cattle  peacefully  feeding  like  the  horses. 
Now  and  then  I  could  see  above  the  clumps  of 
tamarisk  the  line  of  their  bent  backs  and  their 
small  horns  as  they  raised  their  heads.  Most  of 
these  oxen  of  the  Camargue  are  raised  to  run  in 
the  ferrades,  the  village  fetes,  and  some  have 
names  that  are  even  celebrated  in  the  circuses 
of  Provence  and  Languedoc.  Our  neighbouring 
herd  counts  among  others  the  "  Roman  "  who  has 
ripped  up  I  know  not  how  many  men  and  horses 
in  the  races  at  Nismes,  Aries,  Tarascon.  Conse- 
quently, his  comrades  have  accepted  him  as  leader. 
For  in  these  strange  herds,  the  animals  govern 
themselves  by  laws,  grouped  around  some  old  bull 
whom  they  take  for  leader.  When  a  hurricane 
falls  upon  Camargue,  terrible  in  that  great  plain 


In  Camargue.  185 

where  nothing  diverts  it,  it  is  a  sight  to  see  the 
herd  pressing  together  behind  its  leader,  all  heads 
turning  to  the  wind  their  broad  foreheads  where 
the  strength  of  the  ox  is  concentrated.  The  Pro- 
vencal herdsmen  call  that  manoeuvre  vira  la  bano 
an  giscle — turning  horn  to  the  wind  ;  and  sorrow 
to  the  herd  that  does  not  do  so.  Blinded  by  rain, 
driven  by  wind,  the  routed  herd  turns  upon  itself, 
is  terrified,  dispersed,  and  the  distracted  animals, 
rushing  before  them  to  escape  the  tempest,  plunge 
into  the  Rhone,  the  Vaccares,  or  the  sea. 


1 86  Letters  from  My  Mill. 


BARRACK   HOMESICKNESS. 

This  morning,  at  the  first  gleam  of  dawn,  the 
loud  roll  of  a  drum  awoke  me  with  a  start :  Ron 
plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon  ! 

A  drum  among  my  pines  at  such  an  hour  !  Sin- 
gular, to  say  the  least  of  it. 

Quick,  quick,  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  ran  to 
open  the  door. 

No  one.  The  noise  has  stopped.  From  among 
the  wet  creepers  two  or  three  curlews  fly  out,  shak- 
ing their  wings.  A  slight  breeze  sings  in  the  leaf- 
age. To  eastward,  on  the  delicate  summit  of  the 
Alpilles  lies  a  golden  dust  from  which  the  sun  is 
slowly  issuing.  A  first  ray  touches  already  the  roof 
of  the  mill.  At  that  instant  the  drum,  invisible, 
begins  to  beat  again  in  the  covert :  Ron  —  plon 
—  plon,  plon,  plon  ! 

The  devil  take  that  ass's  skin  !  I  had  forgotten 
it.  But  who  can  the  savage  be  who  salutes  Au- 
rora in  these  woodland  wilds  with  a  drum?  In 
vain  I  looked  about  me;  I  saw  nothing  —  nothing 
but  tufts  of  lavender  and  pine-trees  racing  down- 
ward to  the  road.  In  that  thicket  there  must  be 
some  imp,  engaged  in  making  fun  of  me  —  Ariel, 
no  doubt,  or  Master  Puck.  The  scamp  has  said 
to  himself  as  he  passed  my  mill :  — 


Barrack  Homesickness,  187 

"That  Parisian  is  too  tranquil  here.  I  '11  give 
him  a  serenade." 

On  which  he  takes  a  big  drum,  and  —  Ron  plon 
plon  !  Ron  plon  plon !  Will  you  be  quiet,  you 
rascal  of  a  Puck  ?  you  '11  wake  my  grasshoppers. 

It  was  not  Puck. 

It  was  Gouguet  Francois,  called  Pistolet,  drummer 
of  the  31st  infantry,  off  on  a  fortnight's  furlough. 
Pistolet  is  bored  in  the  country ;  he  is  homesick, 
that  drummer,  and  when  the  village  is  willing  to 
lend  him  its  drum,  he  goes  off  to  the  woods  in 
melancholy  mood  to  beat  it  and  dream  of  his 
barracks. 

It  was  on  my  little  green  hill  that  he  had  come  to 
dream  on  this  occasion.  There  he  stands  against 
a  fir-tree,  his  drum  between  his  legs,  rejoicing  his 
heart.  Coveys  of  startled  partridges  rise  at  his  feet 
without  his  seeing  them.  The  wild  thyme  is  balmy 
about  him,  but.  he  does  not  smell  it. 

Neither  does  he  notice  those  delicate  spider- 
webs  trembling  in  the  sunshine  among  the  branches, 
nor  the  spicy  pine-needles  that  skip  on  his  drum. 
Absorbed  in  his  dream  and  his  music,  he  lovingly 
watches  his  sticks  as  they  tap,  and  his  big,  silly 
face  expands  with  delight  at  each  loud  roll. 

Ron  plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon  ! 

"  How  fine  it  is,  our  big  barrack,  with  its  paved 
courtyard,  its  rows  of  windows,  all  in  a  line,  the 
men  in  their  forage-caps,  and  the  low  arcades 
where  the  canteens  rattle !  " 

Ron  plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon ! 


1 88  Letters  from  My  Mill 

"  Oh !  that  echoing  staircase,  the  white-washed 
corridors,  the  close  dormitory,  the  belts  that  one 
pipe-clays,  the  blacking-pots,  the  iron  bedsteads 
with  their  gray  coverlets,  the  guns  that  glitter  in 
the  rack !  " 

Ron  plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon  ! 

"  Oh !  the  good  days  in  the  guard-house,  the 
cards  that  stick  to  one's  fingers,  that  hideous 
queen  of  spades  with  feather  furbelows,  and  the 
old  tattered  Pigault-Lebruns  lying  round  on  the 
camp  beds." 

Ron  plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon  ! 

"  Oh !  the  long  nights  mounting  guard  at  the 
gates  of  the  ministries,  the  chinks  in  the  sentry-box 
which  let  in  the  rain,  the  feet  that  are  always  cold, 
and  the  fine  gala  coaches  that  spatter  you  as  they 
go  by.  Oh !  that  extra  duty,  the  days  in  the 
stocks,  the  vile-smelling  bucket,  the  wooden  pillow, 
the  cold  reveille  of  a  rainy  morning,  and  the  taps 
of  a  foggy  night,  when  the  gas  is  lighted  and  the 
roll-call  brings  every  one  in  all  breathless !  " 

Ron  plon  plon  !     Ron  plon  plon  ! 

"  Oh !  the  forest  of  Vincennes,  the  white  cotton 
gloves,  the  walks  on  the  ramparts.  Oh !  the 
Barriere  de  l'ficole,  the  soldier's  girl,  the  cornet 
in  the  Salon  de  Mars,  the  absinthe  in  the  garden, 
the  secrets  between  two  hiccoughs,  the  sabres 
unsheathed,  the  sentimental  song  —  sung  with  a 
hand  on  one's  heart !  " 

Dream,  dream,  poor  man ;  it  is  not  I  who  will 
prevent  you ;  tap  your  drum  boldly,  tap  hard  with 


Barrack  Homesickness.  189 

all  your  might.  I  have  no  right  to  think  you 
ridiculous. 

If  you  are  homesick  for  your  barrack,  have  not 
I,  I  myself,  a  longing  for  mine? 

My  Paris  pursues  me  even  here — like  yours. 
You  drum  beneath  the  pines  and  I  make  copy.  — 
Fine  Provencals  we  are,  i'  faith!  Down  there, 
in  the  barracks  of  Paris  we  regret  our  blue 
Alpilles  and  the  fresh  wild  odour  of  lavender; 
but  here,  in  the  heart  of  Provence  we  miss  our 
barracks,  and  all  that  recalls  them  to  us  is 
precious. 

Eight  o'clock  is  striking  in  the  village.  Pistolet, 
not  relinquishing  his  drumsticks,  starts  to  go  back. 
I  hear  him,  descending  through  the  pines,  still  drum- 
ming. And  I,  lying  on  the  grass,  sick  with  nos- 
talgia, I  fancy  I  see,  to  the  sound  of  the  drum  as 
it  recedes,  my  Paris,  the  whole  of  my  Paris  defiling 
among  the  firs. 

Ah  Paris !  .  .  Paris !  .  .  Forever  Paris ! 


LETTERS    TO    AN    ABSENT   ONE. 


LETTERS   TO   AN   ABSENT 
ONE. 


THE   SURRENDER. 

Written  Feb.  6,  187 1. 

I  DO  not  know  what  bravura  air  they  will  sing 
to  you  in  the  theatre  at  Bordeaux  apropos  of  the 
siege  and  the  surrender  of  Paris ;  but  if  you  want 
to  know,  once  for  all,  my  sentiments  on  that 
lamentable  affair,  here  they  are  in  two  words :  — 

Our  valiant  generals  —  may  the  devil  take  them  ! 
—  defended  the  ex-capital  just  as  they  might  have 
defended  Mezieres,  Toul,  or  Verdun,  after  a  certain 
military  code  which  on  leaving  school  each  one 
carries  under  the  lining  of  his  k6pi :  "  Article 
I.  A  besieged  city  never  unbesieges  itself."  Yet 
they  parted  from  that  precept  and  attempted  to 
raise  the  siege. 

Remark  in  passing  that  these  same  tacticians, 
eight  days  before  the  siege,  told  us  with  adorable 
self-sufficiency  that  we  might  be  carried  by  assault, 
but  never  invested  —  never. 

Oh  yes  !   generals  of  the  Good  God,  we  could  be 

invested.       The  Prussians  have  broad   paws,  and 

although  Paris  has  a  big  waist  she  found  herself, 

in  less  than  a  week,  pinched  in  like  a  wasp  by  those 

13 


194  Letters  to  cut  Absent  One. 

old  veterans;  but  if  you  generals  had  had  the 
pluck  we  might  even  then  have  got  out  of  the 
difficulty.  Paris  is  a  giant;  and  you  ought  to 
have  let  her  fight  as  a  giant;  you  ought  to  have 
given  freedom  to  her  genius  and  put  in  motion  all 
her  muscles.  When  the  Marne  hampered  you, 
Paris  should  have  swallowed  the  Marne.  Those 
terrible  heights  of  Chatillon,  Meudon,  Champigny, 
all  those  mills,  all  those  knolls,  the  ridiculous  and 
bloody  names  of  which  pursue  us  in  our  dreams, 
Paris,  with  one  kick,  could  have  sent  them  to 
the  moon.  It  was  a  matter  of  four  hundred 
thousand  spades  working  for  a  month  behind  a 
hundred  thousand  muskets;  but  you  would  not 
hear  of  it. 

Ah !  the  true  history  of  that  siege,  it  is  not  in 
newspapers  or  in  books  that  we  must  look  for  it ; 
we  should  go  to  the  ministry  of  war.  There  were 
fought  the  great  battles  before  Paris.  There  were 
wrecked  against  the  leathern  bucklers  of  military 
bureaucracy  all  individual  efforts,  all  good  wills,  all 
ardent  enthusiasms,  all  great  ideas  for  the  defence 
of  the  city.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  Minister  Dorian 
and  his  staff  of  the  Public  Works  so  active,  so 
intelligent,  going  from  bureau  to  bureau,  making 
himself  humble,  even  small,  and  supplicating,  with 
clasped  hands :  — 

"  For  pity's  sake,  gentlemen  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment! We  know  how  insignificant  we  are;  the 
cleverest  of  us  cannot  serve  to  even  brush  your 
Guiods  and  your  Frebaults.  Yes,  you  are  right, 
our   engineers   are   asses,  our  contractors  under- 


The  Surrender.  195 

stand  nothing;  but  never  mind  that,  — do  try  our 
little  pieces  of  7  loaded  at  the  breech,  and  our 
flying  supply-waggons,  which  can  pour  hogsheads 
of  hot  coffee  and  wine  down  your  soldiers  throats 
even  on  the  battlefield,  and  our  stationary  balloons 
which,  without  costing  you  the  life  of  a  single  man, 
can  reconnoitre  and  make  sure  whether  the  bat- 
teries on  the  Chatillon  are  really  only  stove-pipes, 
as  it  is  said  they  are." 

And  how  proud  they  were,  those  brave  Public 
Works  men,  when,  after  five  months  of  entreaty, 
efforts,  and  documents  of  all  kinds,  they  succeeded 
in  getting  to  the  front  a  few  of  those  "  pieces  of 
7  "  —  about  which  one  of  our  great  generals  said 
in  his  slightly  cracked  faubourg  voice :  — 

"  Not  so  bad,  this  commercial  artillery !  I  really 
must  see  about  buying  some." 

Too  late,  general.    The  Prussians  have  got  them 

all. 

Now,  the  end  is  come.  Pans  has  once  more 
eaten  white  bread  and  butter.  There  is  no  going 
back  to  the  past.  At  first  I  raged,  — my  God! 
how  I  raged,  — but  of  late,  I  feel  within  me,  in  the 
depths  of  me,  something  relaxed,  something  rest- 
ful. It  was  so  long,  my  dear  friend,  so  long,  that 
siege  !  so  agonizing,  so  monotonous  !  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  had  just  spent  five  months  at  sea  in 
a  dead  and  almost  continual  calm. 

And  to  think  that  for  certain  persons  those  five 
months  of  enervating  sadness  were  intoxicating  — 
a  perpetual  fete.  From  the  privates  of  the  National 
Guard,  earning  their  forty-five  sous  a  day  for  doing 


196  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 

nothing,  to  the  majors  with  seven  stripes,  construc- 
tors of  barricades  in  chambers,  ambulance  fellows 
of  Gamache,  all  shiny  with  good  meat  juice,  fan- 
tastic free-lances  parading  in  cafes  and  calling  the 
waiters  with  omnibus  whistles,  commanders  of  the 
National  Guard  billeted  with  their  mistresses  in 
the  public  apartments,  all  the  hucksters,  all  the 
tricksters,  the  dog-stealers,  the  cat-hunters,  the  sel- 
lers of  horse-hoofs,  albumen,  gelatine,  the  pigeon- 
raisers,  the  owners  of  milch  cows,  all  those  having 
notes  in  the  sheriff's  hands  and  those  who  dislike 
to  pay  their  rent,  —  to  every  one  of  them  the  end 
of  the  siege  is  desolation ;  there  is  not  a  patriotic 
thought  among  them.  Paris  free,  they  were  forced 
to  return  to  the  ranks,  to  work,  to  face  life,  to  give 
up  the  gold  lace,  the  public  apartments,  and  return 
to  their  kennels,  —  ah  !  it  was  hard. 

Certainly  I  do  not  wish  to  calumniate  the  Re- 
public. In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  yet  know  what 
it  is ;  then,  having  seen  very  closely  the  men  and 
the  things  of  the  empire,  I  have  no  right  to  cavil. 
Nevertheless,  what  has  been  going  on  around  me 
since  the  fourth  of  September  has  filled  my  soul 
with  bitterness,  and  made  me  more  sceptical  than 
ever.  All  those  that  I  knew  to  be  fools,  loafers, 
idlers,  incapables  have  come  to  the  surface  and 
found  offices.  Be  it  understood  that  I  am  not 
speaking  of  republicans  by  conviction,  faithful  men, 
men  of  the  night  before ;  they  have  had  their  turn, 
and  it  was  just;  but  I  speak  of  the  others,  those  whom 
that  sad  empire  would  not  have  had  in  its  lowest 
offices,  —  they  are   provided  for   now,  —  even  to 


The  Surrender.  197 

that  miserable,  that  pitiable  N.  .  .  whom  we  saw 
during  the  death-struggle  of  the  late  reign  begging 
from  all  the  ministries  an  office,  no  matter  what; 
here  he  is  now  commissary  of  police  in  a  blood- 
thirsty arrondissement. 

Another  strange  thing  is  to  see  — in  the  midst 
of  the  great  political  hurly-burly  —  the  immutabil- 
ity of  certain  men  and  certain  situations.  The 
most  complete  type  of  these  hommes-bou^es  —  hu- 
man buoys,  who  float  in  all  weathers  and  come  to 
the  surface  of  the  water  no  matter  what  may  hap- 
pen —  is  the  worthy  secretary-general  of  the  ci-de- 
vant legislative  body.  All  the  journalists  of  Paris 
know  this  long  individual  with  the  livid  face,  thin 
lips,  sad  smile,  head  of  an  acrobat  and  a  beadle, 
who  is  always  to  be  seen  seated  at  a  little  table, 
above  the  tribune  and  behind  the  presidential 
chair.  I  like  to  think  that  the  place  is  a  good 
one,  for  it  is  now  more  than  thirty  years  that  the 
worthy  man  has  clung  to  it ;  it  would  need  a  bold 
wind-sweep  to  topple  him  from  that  height.  Kings 
have  gone,  empires  have  crumbled,  the  torpedoes 
of  the  republic  have  blown  the  Assembly  to  bits, 
but  the  little  table  of  M.  Valette  has  not  budged, 
and  never  will  budge. 

Talk  to  me  of  in-dis-pen-sa-ble  men !  He  is 
one ;  or  at  least  he  makes  us  believe  he  is,  and 
that  is  why  he  is  so  strong.  It  seems  that  no  one 
in  France,  not  even  M.  Thiers,  knows  parliamentary 
law  as  he  does.  So  that  if  he  were  not  here  the 
parliamentary  machine  would  be  unable  to  perform 
its  functions.     Outside  of  those  terrible  rules  and 


igS  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

regulations,  as  to  which  he  is  pitiless,  he  is  a  man 
all  suppleness  and  all  concession.  "  If  your  Excel- 
lency desires  it,"  he  says  in  a  sugary  voice,  bowing 
to  the  ground  before  M.  Palikao.  This  was  said 
on  September  4,  at  midday.  September  6,  at  the 
same  hour,  he  entered  the  salons  of  the  Place 
Beauvau  and,  with  the  same  obsequious  smile,  the 
same  bend  of  his  courtier  hips,  he  said  to  M.  Gam- 
betta :  "  If  your  Excellency  will  kindly  permit  me." 
And  this  time  —  as  ever  before  —  they  have  left 
him  tranquil  at  his  little  table,  with  the  keys  of 
the  Palais  in  his  pocket,  a  picket  of  the  National 
Guard  before  his  door  to  do  him  honour;  and  for 
the  last  five  months  he  has  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  pick  violets  on  the  beautiful  lawns  of  the  presi- 
dency and  draw  his  pay  regularly.  Now  that  the 
Chamber  has  opened  at  Bordeaux  he  is  down  there, 
smiling  as  usual,  at  his  little  table  behind  the  presi- 
dential arm-chair. 

A  saying  of  this  amiable  personage  will  complete 
his  portrait.  One  of  his  subordinates  attempted 
on  some  occasion  to  oppose  him,  openly  relying  on 
the  protection  of  M.  Schneider,  then  president  of 
the  legislative  body.  M.  Valette  summoned  the 
poor  devil  into  his  cabinet,  and  there,  gently  and 
without  anger,  he  slipped  into  him  between  skin 
and  flesh,  as  they  say,  this  memorable  remark: — 

"  Take  care  what   you   are  about,  my  friend ; 
presidents  are  not  eternal." 

M.  Valette  is  eternal. 

He  is  called  "  The  Administration." 


The  Dictators.  199 


THE  DICTATORS. 

Do  you  remember  No.  7  rue  de  Tournon  and 
that  famous  Hotel  du  Senat  where  we  have  eaten 
so  many  Reims  biscuits  in  the  dust?  I  passed 
before  it  this  morning  on  my  way  to  look  at  the 
bombarded  quarter.  The  house  is  still  the  same ; 
the  courtyard  as  black  and  damp,  the  great  win- 
dows of  the  dining-room  as  cloudy  as  they  were 
a  dozen  years  ago,  but  the  room  itself  seemed  to 
me  less  noisy. 

What  a  racket  was  there  —  in  our  day  —  at  din- 
ner-time !  Always  a  dozen  Southern  students  — 
of  the  worst  South  —  with  rusty  beards  too  black, 
too  shiny,  shrill  tones,  extravagant  gestures,  and 
long,  drooping  noses  which  gave  them  the  look 
of  a  horse's  head.  Heavens !  how  insufferable 
those  young  Gascons  were  !  What  excitement  out 
of  nothing,  what  silliness,  what  assurance,  what 
turbulence !  One  of  them  especially,  the  loudest 
bawler,  the  most  gesticulating  of  the  band,  remains, 
more  particularly,  in  my  memory.  I  can  see  him 
now  as  he  entered  the  room,  round-backed,  rolling 
his  shoulders,  blind  of  one  eye,  and  his  face  all 
inflamed. 

As  soon  as  he  entered,  the  other  horse-heads 
sprang  up  around  the  table  and  greeted  him  with 
a  formidable  neigh :  — 


200  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  here 's  Gambetta !  " 

They  pronounced  it,  the  monsters  !  Ghambetthdh, 
and  a  mouthful  it  was  ! 

He,  sitting  noisily  down,  spread  himself  over  the 
table,  or  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  perorated, 
rapped  with  his  fist,  laughed  till  the  windows  shook, 
dragged  the  table-cloth  about  him,  spat  to  a  dis- 
tance, got  drunk  without  drinking,  snatched  the 
dishes  from  your  hands,  the  words  from  your 
mouth,  and,  after  having  talked  the  whole  time, 
went  away  without  having  said  a  single  thing; 
Gaudissart  and  Gazonal  in  one;  that  is  to  say,  all 
that  can  be  imagined  most  provincial,  most  sono- 
rous, and  most  tiresome.  I  remember  that  once  I 
invited  to  our  table  a  little  employe  of  the  city,  a 
cold  lad,  very  self-contained,  who  had  just  made 
his  debut  in  the  Charivari,  signing  the  name  of 
Henri  Rochefort  to  theatre  articles  in  a  prose 
as  sober  and  reserved  as  his  own  person.  Gam- 
betta, to  do  honour  to  the  journalist,  seated  him 
on  his  right,  the  side  of  his  sound  eye,  and 
soaked  him  all  the  evening  with  his  eloquence,  so 
well  and  so  long  that  the  future  chairman  of  the 
Committee  on  Barricades,  carried  away  from  my 
dinner  a  stupendous  headache  which  cut  short  our 
relations.     Since  then  I  have  greatly  regretted  him. 

You  see,  my  dear  absent  friend,  how  mistaken 
we  can  be  about  men.  How  many  times  did  we 
say  that  that  flower  of  the  Tarn-et-Garonne  would 
return  to  his  own  region  and  flatten  himself  day 
by  day  between  the  heavy  folios  of  a  provincial 
code  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Auch  or  P^zenas, 


The  Dictators.  201 

We  never  once  suspected  then  that  we  had  before 
us  a  great  orator  in  the  germ,  a  deputy,  a  minister, 
a  dictator;  and  that  from  that  disorderly  brain, 
that  flux  of  language,  thick  and  muddy  as  the 
waters  of  a  pool,  would  one  day  gush  a  word  of 
power  which  seemed  to  some  the  very  breath  itself 
of  the  Nation. 

How  came  it  so?  By  what  mysterious  opera- 
tion did  this  Tholomyes  of  the  table  d'hote  turn 
into  a  great  man  so  suddenly?  I  have  my  own 
idea  about  it;  but  it  is  a  poetical  idea,  and  you 
will  laugh  when  I  tell  it  to  you.  Nevertheless, 
nothing  can  be  more  real.  It  came  from  the  day 
when  he  acquired  a  glass  eye,  a  beautiful  blue  eye, 
with  an  inalterable  iris  —  from  that  day  dates  the 
metamorphosis  and  the  high  destiny  of  Gambetta. 
That  glass  eye  was  probably  a  fairy ;  and  in  bring- 
ing light  to  the  cyclops  face  she  gave  him,  by  the 
same  stroke  of  her  wand,  intellect,  power  of  ex- 
pression, the  gift  of  command,  and,  above  all,  the 
gift  of  malice.  For  he  is  malicious,  that  Gascon ! 
No  other  proof  is  needed  than  that  galloping  con- 
sumption about  which  he  made  us  all  so  pitiful 
last  year,  and  which  will  certainly  take  its  place  in 
history,  a  little  lower  than  the  crutches  of  Sixtus 
V.  in  the  storehouse  of  the  properties  and  artifices 
of  great  men. 

But  what  his  glass  eye  never  could  relieve  him 
of  were  his  terrible  Southern  accent  and  his  epilep- 
tic gesticulation.  In  those  respects  he  was  always 
the  former  Gambetta  of  the  rue  de  Tournon ;  and 
persons  who  knew  him  well   were   able,   without 


202  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

leaving  Paris,  to  follow  him,  step  by  step,  in  his 
provincial  heroics.  We  could  see  him  thumping 
his  fist  on  the  balcony  of  prefectures  and  casting 
to  the  astounded  echoes  of  the  market-places  or 
the  great  squares  a  formidable  and  roaring :  "  Ci- 
toyefns !  "  Also  we  could  imagine  him  inspecting 
a  camp  of  Mobiles,  or  heading  a  patriotic  funeral, 
head  down,  back  rounded,  gait  rolling,  a  red  fou- 
lard knotted  crookedly  round  his  throat,  and  his 
right  arm  flung  carelessly  on  the  shoulder  of  one 
of  his  Mamelukes,  —  Spuller,  Pipe-en-Bois,  or 
Chose. 

Just  think !  if  one  had  the  heart  to  laugh,  what 
a  jolly  vaudeville  one  might  make  with  that  title : 
"  The  Mamelukes  of  Gambetta."  What  airs  and 
bedizenment  they  gave  themselves,  all  those  ninnies, 
those  obscurities,  those  incapables,  whom  that  glass 
eye  dragged  for  one  moment  out  of  their  native 
dusk !  What  junketings !  what  fetes !  and  how 
hard  it  must"  have  been  to  renounce  it  all.  It 
should,  in  justice,  be  said  that  the  business  of 
mameluke  had,  at  times,  a  cruel  side.  I  remember 
seeing,  some  four  or  five  months  ago,  the  head  of  the 
cabinet,  Spuller,  in  a  terrible  position.  It  was  on 
the  Place  Saint-Pierre  at  Montmartre,  one  windy 
afternoon  under  a  broiling  sun.  In  the  middle  of 
the  square,  Nadar,  wearing  his  aeronaut's  helmet, 
was  flaming  away.  In  a  corner,  the  enormous 
yellow  balloon,  lying  on  its  side,  was  slowly  inflat- 
ing. All  around,  stood  an  immense  crowd  come 
to  see  the  minister  of  the  Interior  mount  up  into 
the  sky  with  the  head  of  his  cabinet.     In  the  dis- 


The  Dictators.  203 

tance,    a    dull    but    incessant    cannonading    was 
heard. 

I  don't  know  why  it  was,  but  that  vast  blue  sky, 
the  yellow  balloon,  that  Delegate  of  the  Defence 
about  to  fly  upward  like  a  bird,  the  giant  city  with 
its  many  quarters  in  which  the  thunder  of  the 
siege  guns  was  lost  among  the  myriad  street  noises 
—  all  these  things  had  something  fantastic  and 
Chinese  about  them  which  made  me  think  vaguely 
of  the  siege  of  Pekin.  To  complete  the  illusion, 
the  worthy  M.  Spuller,  in  a  long  furred  coat,  opened 
wide  his  eyes  like  circumflex  accents  and  gazed 
with  horror  at  the  preparations  for  this  unusual 
departure  —  the  vast  sky,  Paris  below  it  in  a  fog, 
and  the  great  yellow  creature  swelling  up  to  sight 
and  dragging  at  its  ropes.  The  poor  mameluke 
was  piteous  to  behold.  He  was  pale,  his  teeth 
chattered.  Once  or  twice  I  heard  him  say,  quite 
low,  in  a  daft  voice :  — 

"  It  is,  truly,  a  most  extraordinary  thing." 
Most  extraordinary,  indeed,  Monsieur  Spuller. 


204  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 


A  MUSHROOM   BED   OF  GREAT  MEN. 

ABOUT  the  year  LXVII.  of  the  republican  hegira, 
in  the  middle  of  the  month  floreal,  when  the  trees 
of  the  boulevard  Montmartre  were  beginning  to 
tint  with  green,  the  citizen  Carjat,  amiable  poet 
and  photographer,  and  behind  him  a  whole  covey 
of  young  lyricals,  thinking  that  the  absinthe  of  the 
Cafe  des  Variet.es  tasted  of  straw,  crossed  the 
roadway  with  a  dignified  step  and  hung  up  their 
lyres  and  their  hats  on  the  hooks  of  the  opposite 
cafe.  It  was  thus,  that  the  great  future  destiny  of 
the  Cafe  de  Madrid  began. 

Up  to  that  time  it  was  only  a  large,  rather  mel- 
ancholy tavern,  with  faded  divans  and  clouded 
mirrors,  where  one  found  old  numbers  of  "  Iberia  " 
lying  about,  and  a  few  Spaniards,  gilt  and 
wrinkled  as  Cordova  leather,  drinking  choco- 
late bavaroise  silently.  The  noisy  invasion  of  the 
lyric  poets  dispersed  these  hidalgos,  but  the 
tavern-keeper  lost  nothing.  That  machine  for 
shaking  hands  called  Carjat,  once  installed  near 
the  cafe  window,  harpooned  the  passers  in  the 
streets,  and,  thanks  to  his  adroit  and  continual  fish- 
ing, the  Cafe  de  Madrid  became  in  a  very  short 
time  the  fashionable  literary  drinking-place ;  some- 
thing like  the  divan  Lepelletier,  but  more  mixed, 
more  lively  —  the  little  bourse  of  the  Beaux-Arts. 


A  Mushroom  Bed  of  Great  Men.     205 

A  newspaper  in  process  of  being  founded,  a  book 
about  to  appear,  the  opening  of  the  Salon,  an  ex- 
hibition at  Martinet's,  now  and  then  an  exchange 
of  slaps  between  two  lyricals,  a  little  duel  on  the 
lie  Saint-Ouen  with  effusion  of  sour  wine,  these 
were,  in  those  days,  the  great  events  of  the  place. 
As  for  politics,  they  were  little  thought  of.  And 
yet,  the  fine  flower  of  the  Commune  was  there, 
expanding  on  the  benches ;  but  who  the  devil 
would  have  thought  it?  All  those  young  fellows 
seemed  so  little  cut  out  for  dictators,  and  they 
were  still  so  far  from  thinking  of  it  themselves. 

Valles,  his  nose  in  his  absinthe,  joked,  sneered, 
spied  on  others  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and 
watched  the  cafe,  seeking  types  for  his  book  on 
"  Refractories."  He  had  talent,  that  Valles,  before 
the  Commune;  but  a  talent  without  suppleness, 
without  imagination  ;  very  limited  as  to  dictionary ; 
the  words  "  flags,  rags,  bayonets,"  recurring  con- 
tinually and  merely  to  give  a  false  ring  to  his  sen- 
tences. But  with  it  all,  a  very  individual  way  of 
seeing  and  saying  things,  a  certain  joyous  ferocity, 
wit  that  was  wholly  his  own,  and  a  sufficiency  of 
literature.  In  those  lugubrious  tales  to  which  he 
devoted  himself  we  could  guess  the  bitter  laugh, 
the  eyes  suffused  with  bile,  of  a  man  whose  child- 
hood was  wretched,  and  who  hates  humanity  be- 
cause, when  he  was  young,  he  was  forced  to  wear 
ridiculous  garments  made  from  his  father's  old 
overcoats. 

Beside  Valles,  the  big  painter  Courbet,  con- 
ventional   peasant,    puffy    with    pride    and    beer, 


206  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 

laughed  in  his  beard  and  shook  his  fat,  saying  evil 
of  Rophoel. 

Farther  on,  a  tall  thin  fellow  in  spectacles,  with 
the  curled  and  silly  head  of  a  lawyer's  clerk  and  a 
look  as  if  he  had  just  come  from  Fortunio's  office, 
was  going  about  from  table  to  table  distributing 
copies  of  his  first  book,  —  "  Desperanza"  by  Ver- 
morel,  a  work  with  a  philosophic  purpose,  written 
in  the  groves  of  Bullier  with  the  sentimentality  of 
the  Latin  quarter.  As  literary  promise  it  was 
scarcely  worth  more  than  the  novels  of  Paschal 
Grousset. 

The  latter  often  came  to  the  Cafe"  de  Madrid. 
A  pretty  little  gentleman,  gloved,  pomatumed,  and 
curled  with  tongs,  having,  both  for  speech  and 
writing,  that  deplorable  gift  which  is  called  facil- 
ity, and  with  it  a  craving  to  make  the  world  turn 
on  that  curious  given  name  of  his  —  Paschal. 
Poor  Villemessant,  who  was  always  open  to  the 
seductions  of  dress,  and  who,  in  his  last  years 
especially,  looked  less  to  the  talent  of  his  writers 
than  to  the  tying  of  their  cravats,  was  charmed  with 
this  perfumed  Corsican.  Novels,  items,  science  for 
a  sou,  Don  Pasquale  did  them  all  for  the  "  Figaro," 
and  as  many  as  he  pleased.  But  inasmuch  as  what 
he  specially  desired  to  do  was  to  make  a  noise, 
and  his  literature  made  none,  he  ended  by  getting 
tired  of  it  and  went  over,  as  they  said  at  Madrid, 
to  the  table  of  the  Politicals. 

Here  's  what  that  famous  table  was.  It  happened 
that  one  day  the  machine  called  Carjat,  swinging 
his  great  arms  in  the  cafe  window,  caught  on  the 


A  Mushroom  Bed  of  Great  Men.     207 

fly  a  young  law- student,  named  Gambetta,  already 
celebrated  in  all  the  plum-shops  of  the  boulevard 
Saint-Michel  —  the  law-students  and  licentiates  go 
there  in  flocks  like  starlings.  Behind  Gambetta 
was  Laurier,  then  Mossieu  Floquet,  then  Spuller, 
then  Lannes,  then  Isambert,  all  of  them  great  poli- 
ticians, and  consumers  of  beer.  These  gentlemen, 
on  arriving,  took  possession  of  a  corner  of  the  cafe 
and  never  left  it  until  the  revolution  of  Septem- 
ber 4.  It  was  there,  on  that  "  table  of  the  Politi- 
cals," a  noisy,  gesticulating  table,  that  Gambetta's 
fist  exercised  itself  for  five  years  in  parliamentary 
pugilism;  the  marble  is  still  there,  split  like  the 
rock  of  Roland. 

Later,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  cafe,  was  formed 
what  was  called  "  the  corner  of  the  Pure."  There, 
among  a  group  of  old  sachems  with  long  beards, 
solemn  and  dogmatic  ventriloquists,  snorted  Pere 
Delescluze,  nervous  and  high-strung  as  an  Arab 
steed.  With  his  cameo  profile,  his  feverish  ges- 
ture, his  fanatical  blue  eyes  —  eyes  so  young  be- 
neath those  white  eyebrows  —  he  reminded  me  of 
a  certain  commander  of  the  regulars  of  Abd-el- 
Kader,  whom  I  had  formerly  known  in  Algeria, 
whom  the  Arabs  venerated  as  a  saint  because  he 
had  made,  I  don't  know  how  many  times,  the 
journey  to  Mecca. 

Pere  Delescluze  had  never  been  to  Mecca,  but 
he  had  returned  from  Cayenne,  and  among  his 
own  party  that  counted  to  him  for  quite  as  much. 
He  was  the  Hadji  of  the  democracy.  There  were 
men   in  the  departments  who  had  travelled  two 


2o8  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

hundred  leagues  merely  to  look  at  him  and  lay 
their  hand  upon  the  skirt  of  his  coat 

That  fact  gave  us  at  times  very  delectable  come- 
dies. One  day  I  saw  a  man  from  Narbon,  familiar 
and  hail-fellow-well-met  as  they  are  down  there, 
lead  up  to  the  table  of  the  saint  a  whole  delega- 
tion of  Narbonese.  Never  shall  I  forget  that 
presentation. 

The  man  from  Narbon,  proud  of  his  Delescluze, 
tapped  him  on  the  back,  leaned  upon  his  shoulder, 
hooked  him  by  the  buttonhole,  and  called  him 
from  one  end  of  the  caf<£  to  the  other :  Delesse- 
cluzh!  winking  to  his  compatriots  as  if  to  say 
"  Hein !  you  see  how  I  speak  to  him."  During 
this  time  the  worthy  Narbonese  gazed  at  the  saint 
with  humid  eyes,  sighing,  raising  their  arms  to 
heaven,  and  giving  way  to  all  sorts  of  naive  and 
exaggerated  expansions,  like  the  savage  Friday 
when  he  found  his  old  father  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat.  The  saint,  who  is  a  clever  man,  did  not 
know  where  to  poke  himself,  and  seemed  much 
displeased.  Near  him,  a  little  man  with  a  gray  tuft 
of  beard  under  his  chin,  the  head  of  a  kind  goat, 
and  light-coloured  humourous  eyes,  smiled  with  a 
touched  air  as  he  drank  his  absinthe.  This  was 
that  brave  Razoua,  a  former  spahi,  who  flung  him- 
self into  politics  to  please  Revillon,  and  never 
doubted  that  some  day  he  should  be  deputy  of 
Paris  and  director  of  the  ficole  Militaire. 

Little  by  little,  however,  without  any  one  taking 
notice    of  it,  the   physiognomy   of  the  cafe  was 


A  Mushroom  Bed  of  Great  Men.     209 

Iransformed.     Of  the  men   of  letters   of  the  first 
leriod,  some,  like  Banville,  Baboii,  Monselet,  had 
led,  frightened  away  by  the  stupid  racket ;   others 
Irere  dead,  such  as  Baudelaire,  Delvau,  and  Charles 
kataille.     Some,  like  Castagnary  and  Carjat  him- 
lelf,  had    gone    over   to    Gambetta.     Politics    had 
Ividently  seized  upon  all  the  tables. 
I   But  worst  of  all  was  when  Rochefort  founded 
1  The  Marseillaise."     Then  a  cloud  rained  down 
ipon    us    of    students,    old    and    pretentious,    im- 
>rovised  journalists,  without  wit,  without  spelling, 
is  ignorant  of  Paris  as  Patagonians,  children  with 
>eards,  who  thought   themselves   called    upon  to 
egenerate    the  world,  pedants    of  republicanism, 
ill  wearing  waistcoats  a  la  Robespierre,  cravats  a 
'a  Saint-Just,  —  the  Raoul  Rigaults,  the  Tridons, 
he  youth  of  Schools  who  had  no  youth  and  no 
scholarship,  did  not  love  to  laugh,  and  were  sulky 
md  savage;   celebrities  of  Belleville,  such  as  the 
"amous  planner  of  the  club  of  things,  pawn-heads, 
greasy  collars,  greasy  hair;   and  all   the  cracked- 
Drains,  the  trainers  of  snails,  the  saviours  of  the 
Deople,  all  the  discontented,  all  the  good-for-noth- 
ings, all  the  idlers,  the  incapables  — 

And  to  think  that  those  are  the  men  who  for 
a  year  past  have  guided  France !  To  think  that 
from  the  coarsest  to  the  silliest  there  was  not  one 
frequenter  of  the  Cafe  de  Madrid  who  has  not 
been  something  —  dictator,  minister,  deputy,  gen- 
eral, commissary  of  police,  inspector  of  camps, 
colonel  of  the  National  Guard  !  And  how  luck 
has  favoured  them !  A  few,  it  is  true,  got  nothing 
14 


2  to  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

after  September  4;  but  March  18  repaired  that 
injustice.  That  time  nothing  was  allowed  to  go 
begging.  They  are  all  members  of  the  Commune 
now,  even  that  poor  devil  of  an  Andrieux,  a  chiro- 
manician  with  a  corroded  face,  who  used  to  wander 
timidly  behind  our  chairs,  begging  for  our  hands 
and  calling  us  "dear  master." 

The  place  may  truly  be  termed  an  historical 
cafe.  If  the  revolution  triumphs  it  is  on  the  tables 
of  the  Cafe"  de  Madrid  that  the  new  laws  will  be 
written. 


Rochefort  and  RossignoL  211 


ROCHEFORT  AND   ROSSIGNOL. 

The  Rochefort  whom  I  knew  on  my  arrival  in 
Paris  was  a  worthy  youth  of  rather  melancholy 
temperament,  living  modestly  with  his  father  on 
a  fourth  floor  of  the  rue  des  Deux-Boules,  and 
using  himself  very  hard  to  earn  the  bread  of  the 
household.  A  petty  employment  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  a  few  articles  in  the  Charivari  paid  for  at 
six  farthings  a  line  (which,  to  tell  the  truth,  were 
not  worth  more),  from  time  to  time  a  "curtain- 
raiser  "  for  Plunkett  or  Cogniard  —  these  were  the 
makings  of  a  gray  and  tranquil  half-life,  which 
resembled  his  writings,  but  did  not  go  with  that 
very  eccentric  countenance,  those  thin  and  peevish 
lips,  that  great  worn  brow,  and  a  head  always  ach- 
ing, pale,  tortured,  nervous,  which  formed  at  that 
time  his  only  originality. 

What  I  liked  in  that  Rochefort  was  a  certain 
bravado  of  demeanour,  a  very  keen  taste  for  poesy, 
for  pictures,  and  especially  for  that  science  of 
Paris,  that  boulevard  experience  which  he  had 
even  then  in  the  highest  degree  as  the  son  of  a 
vaudevillist,  brought  up  at  Charlemagne  and  the 
Cafe"  du  Cirque.  With  that  exception,  there  was 
nothing  marked  about  him :  cleverness  without 
excess,  regularity  in  his  work,  the  manners  and 


212  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

ways  of  a  clerk,  and  no  other  ambition  than  t< 
see  his  name  often  on  the  posters  in  compan) 
with  that  of  Clairville  or  Siraudin.  Such  was  th< 
Henri  Rochefort  of  i860.  The  other,  the  Roche 
fort  of  the  Lanterne,  came  later,  and  it  is  to  Ros 
signol  that  we  owe  him. 

This  Rossignol  was  a  clerk  of  the  city  whon 
one  met  everywhere,  —  at  first  representations,  a 
funerals ;  who  was  always  asking,  with  an  anxiou; 
air,  "Have  you  seen  Rochefort?"  and  who  spen 
his  life  in  following  him,  missing  him,  awaiting 
him,  fetching  him  his  cabs,  carrying  his  copy  tc 
the  papers,  repeating  his  sayings,  imitating  hi; 
gestures ;  and  who  finally  ended  by  cutting  out  o 
Rochefort's  shadow  a  species  of  personality  of  his 
own.  The  type  is  rather  frequent  on  the  boulevard 
All  men  who  become  a  little  known  drag  Ros- 
signols  after  them.  Such  individuals,  who  hold  ar 
intermediate  place  between  servants  and  confidants 
need  an  equable  temper,  the  instincts  of  a  hanger- 
on,  and  some  means ;  for  the  business  is  all-absorb- 
ing and  ill-rewarded,  and  sometimes  requires  out- 
lay. It  so  chanced  that  Rochefort's  Rossigno! 
had,  over  and  above  these  necessary  qualification* 
for  his  part,  a  certain  originality  of  his  own. 

He  was  a  great  Panurge  with  long  flat  hair,  a 
singular  mixture  of  artlessness  and  cynicism,  o 
timidity  and  impudence,  stupidity  and  satire 
youth  and  decrepitude  —  twenty-two  years  old  and 
the  whims  of  an  old  man,  a  cane  with  an  ivory 
handle  and  a  snuff-box.  The  most  silent  and 
gloomy  of  beings,  and  then,  suddenly,  an  excess 


Rochefort  and  Rossignol.  213 

of  wild  gayety,  cold  excitement,  outrageous  jests 
a  la  Bache ;  insulting  persons  in  the  streets  with- 
out motive,  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  gabbling; 
foaming,  saying  everything,  either  droll  or  inde- 
cent, that  came  into  his  head,  with  the  gestures  of 
an  epileptic,  the  eyes  of  a  Pierrot,  and  the  sad 
laugh,  the  prolonged  laugh,  of  emaciated  men. 

I  still  ask  myself  how  this  demoniac  ever  pene- 
trated into  the  peaceful  life  and  intimacy  of  Roche 
fort.  Certain  it  is  that  they  were  never  apart. 
When  Rossignol  committed  follies  Rochefort  was 
there  to  repair  them ;  he  fetched  him  from  the 
guard-house,  took  him  back  to  his  parents,  stuffed 
him  with  theatre  tickets,  walked  about  with  him 
on  the  boulevard — which  made  my  Rossignol  very 
proud,  and  gave  him  early  a  taste  for  celebrity. 
One  fine  day  he  too  wanted  to  write,  or,  at  any 
rate  to  see  his  name  in  a  newspaper.  Rossignol, 
a  man  of  letters !  It  was  so  droll  that  Rochefort 
could  not  resist.  He  put  him  in  that  establish- 
ment of  lunatics  called  Le  Tintamarre,  and  know- 
ing him  incapable  of  writing  a  single  line  —  even 
there  —  he  amused  himself  by  writing  his  articles 
for  him. 

Then  occurred  a  singular  thing.  This  Roche- 
fort, stiff  and  dull  when  he  wrote  for  himself, 
assumed  in  behalf  of  another  a  trivial,  crazy  liveli- 
ness which  resembled  Rossignol's  own  personality ; 
incarnating  himself  in  that  burlesque  type,  he 
acquired  all  its  eccentricities,  all  its  effrontery. 
The  maddest  things  that  came  into  his  head,  the 
things  one  dares  not  say,  the  scum  of  the  pen,  the 


214  Letters  to  an  Adsent  One. 

mud  of  the  ink,  seemed  to  him  good  enough  fo: 
Rossignol ;  and  as  he  mingled  with  them  his  owi 
flair  of  Paris  and  his  clever  vaudevillist  knack  o 
managing  effects,  there  resulted  a  species  of  facetiou 
literature,  coldly  frenzied,  illustrative  to  indecency 
not  French  at  all,  but  very  Parisian,  dislocated  ii 
style,  sentences  turning  summerset,  which  secure< 
the  fortune  of  Le  Tintamarre  and  made  Rossigno 
famous  from  the  Cafe"  de  Suede  to  Bobino.  Oi 
that  day  Rochefort  found  his  manner.  He  did  no 
deceive  himself  as  to  that ;  and  after  a  few  month 
of  such  exercise,  when  he  knew  his  trapeze  thor 
oughly,  he  said  to  the  other,  "  Go  alone !  "  an< 
henceforth  he  did  Rossignol  on  his  own  accounl 

The  unfortunate  satellite,  abandoned  to  himseli 
did  not  do  so  badly,  —  living  a  little  on  his  reputa 
tion  and  a  little  on  what  he  had  learned  from  hi 
master.  Then  some  money  was  bequeathed  t< 
him,  and  hey  !  the  ladies  of  Bobino,  the  journalists 
the  suppers,  the  gay  bohemian  life  !  In  short,  th 
poor  fellow  came  to  the  end  he  wished  for:  h 
killed  himself  by  sitting  up  o'  nights,  and  wen 
away  to  die  in  the  gentle  land  of  Cannes,  ii 
the  neighbourhood  of  Victor  Cousin  and  othe 
celebrated  persons,  which  caused  him  a  certaii 
satisfaction. 

Rochefort  had  various  reasons  for  not  throwini 
himself  into  the  same  way  of  life.  In  the  firs 
place,  his  stomach,  —  one  of  those  terrible  gastral 
gic  stomachs,  always  irritated,  ruined  at  birth,  b; 
which  the  Michelets  of  the  future  will  not  fail  % 
explain  his  literary  temperament.     Besides,  wher 


Rochcfort  and  Rossignol.  215 

would  he  have  found  the  time  to  dissipate?  He 
had  enough  to  do  to  keep  up  with  that  hurricane 
of  Parisian  vogue  which  fell  upon  him  like  a  thun- 
derbolt, uplifted  him,  shook  him,  scattered  his 
budding  fame  from  the  Jockey-Club  to  the  wilds 
of  America,  spreading  about  him  a  tremen- 
dous and  laughable  popularity  by  which  he 
was  himself  dumbfounded.  People  pointed  him 
out  to  one  another,  and  fought  for  him.  Race- 
horses bore  his  name.  Courtesans  pursued  him. 
Show  me  your  Rochefort,"  said  the  Due  de 
Morny  whenever  he  met  Villemessant.  For  it  is 
well  to  know  that  if  Rochefort  is  culpable  all  Paris 
has  been  his  accomplice.  We  spoilt  him.  We 
said  too  often :  "  How  droll  he  is,  that  Roche- 
fort !  "  You,  yourself,  O  Veuillot !  you  laughed. 
And  how  determined  he  was,  that  fellow,  to  make 
us  laugh !  How  afraid  that  his  fame  would  escape 
him !  Which  of  us  has  not  seen  him  biting  his 
nails,  the  day  after  one  of  his  articles,  asking  him- 
self anxiously:  "What  can  I  tell  them  next?" 
And  so,  when  he  felt  that  his  vein  was  exhausted, 
when  he  had  nothing  more  to  say,  he  did  as  Ros- 
signol had  done ;  he  relied  on  audacity  and  said 
all,  all — in  the  Rossignol  language.  Hence  the 
success  of  the  Lantern*. 

Ah  !  my  friend,  God  keep  us  from  a  success  like 
that.  When  a  man  has  once  tasted  it  he  never 
ceases  to  drink  it,  no  matter  at  what  price,  and  no 
matter  in  what  glass.  In  hospitals  you  can  see 
unfortunate  men  cursed  with  alcoholic  madness, 
flinging  themselves  thus  on  anything  they  can  find; 


216  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

vitriol,  eau  de  Cologne,  all  is  good  to  them,  pro 
vided  they  can  drink  it.  This  is  Rochefort': 
condition.  If  that  man  of  intelligence,  if  tha 
gentleman  is  picked  up  of  a  morning  in  the  gut 
ter  of  the  Pere  Duchene,  believe  me,  it  is  not  polit 
ical  passion  that  drove  him  into  it.  Politics  !  di< 
he  ever  even  know  what  they  are  ?  Nor  is  it  lov< 
of  gain ;  I  know  him  to  be  above  that.  No,  it  is  ai 
inextinguishable  thirst  for  popularity,  the  alcohol 
ism  of  success,  with  all  its  symptoms,  —  taste  lost 
stammering,  mind  wandering,  madness. 

At  one  moment  we  thought  him  saved.  During 
the  five  months  of  the  siege  he  had  the  courage  tc 
let  himself  be  forgotten,  to  write  no  more ;  anc 
this  should  be  remembered  in  his  favour.  Bu 
after  that,  what  a  falling  back !  In  his  absence 
others  had  done  Rochefort,  and  done  it  better  thar 
he.  In  vain  he  shouted  and  gesticulated,  his  popu 
larity  was  lost,  gone  to  the  Maroteaus  and  the  Ver- 
mesches.  .  .  This  is  how  I  explain  his  anger,  his 
delirium  during  the  last  days,  that  temporary  in- 
sanity, that  overflow  of  bile  which  drowned  every- 
thing and  blinded  him  as  if  his  gall-bladder  hac 
burst. 

In  spite  of  all,  rid  him  of  his  bile  and  his  foam, 
and  Rochefort  will  always  remain  a  figure  of  this 
period.  He  came  at  his  right  time ;  he  found  the 
house  wide  open,  as  if  he  were  expected.  He  was 
the  providential  missile  —  if  providence  there  be 
about  it  —  sent  to  break  the  first  window  of  the 
Empire  and  give  the  signal  of  the  general  demoli- 
tion. .  .     Even  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  pro- 


Rochefort  and  RossiguoL  217 

fession,  we  ought  to  pay  attention  to  him.  His 
pamphlets  often  have  fire,  wit,  and  comic  power. 
He  gives  me  the  effect  of  an  exasperated  Paul- 
Louis  Courier,  exactly  on  the  level  of  his  epoch 
and  speaking  to  it  in  a  language  it  understands. 
The  two  pamphleteers  resemble  each  other  in  the 
part  they  have  played,  in  their  implacable  hatreds, 
and  in  the  artificiality  of  their  style  — ■  for  neither 
write  naturally.  But  there  is  this  difference  be- 
tween them,  the  same  difference  that  there  was  be- 
tween the  two  Courts,  the  one,  where  Horace  was 
translated,  the  other  where  Theresa  was  invoked. 
Courier  takes  the  affectation  of  his  language 
from  the  old  towers  of  the  sixteenth  century; 
Rochefort  has  picked  up  his  in  the  brand-new 
slang  of  the  nineteenth.  In  reading  Paul-Louis 
I  see  old  Amyot  laughing  at  me  between  the 
lines.  In  reading  Rochefort  I  think  all  the 
while  of  Rossignol. 


218  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 


THE  SENTRY-BOX. 

"  THE  impression  made  upon  me  by  places  is 
one  of  my  troubles.  I  am  affected  by  them  be- 
yond all  reason." 

These  words  of  a  nervosity  wholly  contemporan- 
eous, which  one  might  think  were  written  yesterday, 
are  really  those  of  Mme.  de  Sevigne ;  and  never,  to 
my  thinking,  did  she  say  anything  more  deeply  felt 
or  more  profound. 

There  is,  in  truth,  in  the  places  where  we  live,  a 
mysterious  influence,  issuing  from  wood,  from  stone ; 
a  malignancy  in  surrounding  things  which  takes  de- 
light in  troubling  our  souls,  upsetting  our  ideas,  and 
impressing  our  miserable  brains  beyond  all  reason. 
I  don't  remember  now  which  little  town  in  Algeria 
it  was  where  the  soldiers  mounting  guard  at  a  cer- 
tain point  of  the  ramparts  felt  themselves  seized,  in 
less  than  an  hour,  with  an  insurmountable  disgust 
for  life.  Two  or  three  times  a  week  some  one  or 
other  of  these  poor  devils  was  found  hanging  to  a 
nail  of  the  sentry-box;  and  the  proof  that  there 
was  something  more  in  this  than  the  mere  nostal- 
gia of  recruits  lay  in  the  fact  that  as  soon  as  the 
sentry-box  was  pulled  down  the  epidemic  of 
suicides   ceased. 


The  Sentry- Box.  219 

This  was  certainly  a  specimen  of  the  jettatura 
mentioned  by  Mme.  de  Sevigne;  but  I  know  a 
still  more  striking  instance.  Don't  you  remember 
Smile  Ollivier  arriving  from  Saint-Tropez  in  the 
month  of  April,  1870,  to  construct  that  marvellous 
public  building  of  a  composite  order  called  the 
Liberal  Empire?  He  too,  unfortunate  fellow,  had 
the  malady  of  the  sentry-box ;  and  it  was  to  evade 
its  pernicious  influence,  to  put  himself  as  much  as 
possible  under  shelter  from  the  bad  air  which  per- 
vades great  buildings  in  charge  of  the  State,  that  he 
was  firmly  resolved  not  to  take  up  his  abode  at 
the  ministry. 

11 1  shall  go  there  in  the  morning,"  he  said  to  his 
friends,  "  as  an  Englishman  goes  to  his  counting- 
room  in  the  city.  In  the  evening,  business  over,  I 
shall  shut  up  the  office,  and  come  back  to  the  rue 
Saint-Guillaume." 

And  then,  exciting  himself  with  the  idea  of  his 
coming  liberalism,  he  continued  enthusiastically: 

"  I  will  show  them  what  a  minister  of  Justice 
should  be.  No  style  in  his  household,  no  equi- 
pages. I  shall  go  to  the  Chamber  on  foot,  to  the 
Tuileries  on  foot,  and  never  then  except  to  the 
Council  of  ministers.  I  am  determined  not  to 
attend  either  the  grand  receptions  or  to  the  little 
suppers.  That  is  where  consciences  are  lost; 
and  I  intend  to  keep  mine.  .  .  Ah !  they  accuse 
me  of  having  sold  myself!  well  they  shall  see, 
they  shall  see." 

In  saying  this  the  worthy  man  was  sincere,  and 
the  execution  of  this  fine  programme  was  actually 


220  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

begun.  For  some  time  the  ministry  of  Justice,  so 
stiff,  so  formal,  was  open  to  the  public  like  any 
other  vast  assemblage  of  offices.  Everything 
went  on  in  American  fashion.  The  minister  re- 
ceived you  without  letters  of  audience.  The 
antechambers  stood  empty,  the  ushers  crossed 
their  arms;  in  the  gloom  of  the  great  deserted 
salons  they  could  be  heard  wandering  about  with 
melancholy  steps  shaking  their  chains  like  captives. 
The  head  of  the  staff,  one  of  those  fat  fathers  with 
troublesome  digestions  who  are  always  afraid  of 
apoplexy,  received  the  head-clerks  in  the  courtyard, 
a  cigar  between  his  teeth,  and  wrote  his  signatures* 
on  his  knees  at  the  edge  of  the  portico ;  which 
greatly  scandalized  the  office  servants  of  Monsieur 
Delangle,  all  of  them  as  grave  and  pompous  as 
magistrates. 

As  for  his  Excellency,  had  you  seen  him  arrive 
in  the  morning  through  the  arcades  of  the  rue  de 
Castiglione,  spectacles  on  his  nose,  cravat  awry, 
his  long  overcoat  of  the  last  provincial  cut,  and 
that  fine  new  portfolio  swelling  with  the  projects  of 
the  Liberal  Empire,  you  would  have  thought  him 
an  inspector  of  primary  schools  rather  than  the 
minister  of  Justice.  This  modest  behaviour  did 
him  great  harm  at  the  Tuileries,  where  his  crooked 
cravat  kept  the  ladies  of  honour  and  the  chamber- 
lains a-laughing;  but  that  did  not  trouble  him. 
Faithful  to  his  scheme  of  independence,  the  new 
minister  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  one  except 
the  emperor,  and  he  always  left  the  imperial  palace 
with  his  head  high  and  his  glance  proud,  having 


The  Sen  try- Box.  221 

not  so  much  as  a  glass  of  eau  sucre'e  on  his 
conscience. 

It  was  at  the  height  of  these  great  ministerial 
reforms  that  the  killing  of  Victor  Noir  occurred. 
Poor  Victor  Noir !  by  merely  writing  his  name,  I 
see  him  crossing  the  boulevard  in  two  strides,  with 
his  tall  hat  of  rough  gray  nap,  his  pink  cheeks,  his 
athletic  shoulders,  that  exuberance  of  strength  and 
joy  which  he  knew  not  how  to  give  vent  to,  and 
that  good,  hearty  desire  to  please  that  shone  in  his 
boyish  eyes.  If  he  were  still  living  he  would  be 
only  twenty-three  years  old !  .  . 

But  what  is  the  good  of  talking  of  these  things  ? 
The  case  has  been  judged  and  decided ;  the  death 
of  that  lad  is  nothing  to  us  now  but  a  date  in 
history — an  unforgetable  date,  however.  On  that 
day  a  new  personage,  on  whom  the  makers  of 
plans  never  count,  that  tragical  shuffler  of  cards 
called  the  Unexpected,  entered  suddenly  upon  the 
stage  and  since  then  has  never  left  it. 

At  the  first  news  of  the  drama  at  Auteuil,  before 
the  lawyers  had  taken  possession  of  the  corpse 
and  paraded  it  everywhere  on  the  tumbril  of 
democratic  exhibition,  all  Paris  was  roused  to 
indignation,  —  fimile  Ollivier  more  than  any  one. 
The  night  of  the  crime  he  walked  up  and  down 
his  office  brandishing  the  letter  in  which  Prince 
Piefre  wrote  to  M.  Conti,  with  the  careless  ease  of 
a  noble  of  the  fifteenth  century :  "  I  believe  I  have 
killed  one  of  them." 

"  Ah  !  he  has  killed  one  of  them,  has  he  ?  "  cried 
the    luckless    minister  in    spectacles.      "  And   he 


222  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

thinks  he  can  call  it  killing? —  it  is  murder.  Bona- 
parte though  you  be,  you  shall  go  to  the  galleys, 
monseigneur." 

Meantime  as  it  grew  very  late  and  the  ministry 
was  still  full  of  people,— M.  Grandperret,  prefect 
of  police,  reporters,  messengers,  —  the  minister 
could  not  return  home  as  usual  to  the  rue  Saint- 
Guillaume,  and  towards  morning,  dropping  with 
fatigue,  he  went  to  the  bed  of  his  predecessor. 

The  next  day,  when  he  woke,  he  was  no  longer 
the  same  man.  The  indignation  of  the  evening 
before  had  given  place  to  conventional  sadness, 
uttered  in  administrative  language.  The  murder 
was  nothing  more  than  a  dreadful  misfortune,  a 
very  regrettable  affair ;  one  must  wait ;  one  must 
see.  The  influence  of  the  sentry-box  was  begin- 
ning to  be  felt.  On  the  following  day,  worse  still. 
Paris  was  not  yet  pacified  ;  it  was  judged  necessary 
to  remain  pro  tern,  at  the  ministry.  Little  by  little 
the  habit  was  taken,  so  that  after  the  miserable 
Noir  affair  was  smothered,  the  minister's  residence 
there  became  permanent.  Ushers  and  halberdiers 
resumed  their  pompous  pose  at  the  doors  of  the 
reception-rooms ;  the  bags  of  the  chandeliers  were 
removed,  and  the  founder  of  the  Liberal  Empire 
was  delivered  over,  without  being  himself  aware  of 
it,  to  the  malignancy  of  furniture  and  of  local 
officials. 

From  that  day  he  became  a  perfect  minister  of 
Justice;  suppressed  newspapers,  sequestrated  indi- 
viduals, supped  at  the  Tuileries,  watched  his 
cravats,  did  all  that  he  did  not  mean    to    do,  and 


The  Sentry- Box.  223 

burned  all  that  he  had  formerly  adored.  His  voice 
changed ;  from  shrill  it  became  sour.  Contradic- 
tion was  intolerable  to  him.  Despotic  to  others,  he 
became  the  courtier  of  the  master,  and  when  the 
war  began,  seeking  for  nought  but  favour,  halluci- 
nated by  the  air  of  the  sentry-box,  he  could 
neither  will  anything,  nor  hinder  anything.  It 
'was  thus  that  he  ruined  France,  and  all  of  us, 
and  himself,  and  his  dream  of  a  Liberal  Empire 
as  well. 

Oh  !  the  fatal  influence  of  official  sentry-boxes ; 
who  can  feel  himself  sufficiently  strong  to  resist  it? 
Moderate  liberals,  irreconcilables,  indecousables,  the 
purest  of  the  pure,  in  less  than  one  year  they  all 
passed  that  way.  I  have  before  my  eyes  the  pom- 
pous posters  of  the  Central  Committee  on  the 
morrow  of  March*  1 8,  also  that  species  of  pastoral 
letter,  well  floured  with  philanthropy,  in  which  they 
disavowed  with  such  indignation  the  murders  in 
the  rue  des  Rosiers.  What  protestations  and 
promises  did  they  not  make  to  us !  How  often 
they  said,  "  You  will  see."  And  what  did  we 
see?  They  had  hardly  entered  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
masters  of  the  mayors  and  the  ministers,  before 
those  givers  of  the  holy  water  of  political  clubs 
became  the  most  execrable  of  tyrants.  Does  this 
mean  that  all  those  fellows  were  rascals?  No! 
Besides  ferocious  gamins,  delirious  rhetoricians 
who  played  at  '93  and  put  their  reading  into  action, 
besides  adventurers,  cynics,  roysterers,  there  were 
men  who  believed  themselves  republicans,  illuminati 
of  socialism  whose  lives  had  hitherto  been  honest 


224  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

and  honourable.  For  them  I  ask  some  clemency. 
Borne  suddenly  into  power,  and  overtaken  by  its 
vertigo,  all  the  more  because  they  were  so  little 
prepared  for  it,  they  are  scarcely  responsible  for 
their  acts.  The  atmosphere  of  the  sentry-boxes 
had  turned  them  into  madmen. 


Thi  Tricoteuse*  225 


THE  TRICOTEUSE. 

Somk  eighteen  or  twenty  years  ago  certain  very 
young  fellows  from  the  provinces,  arriving  in  Paris 

to  seek  their  fortunes  with  their  heads  full  of 
Ril/.ic  and  their  teeth  of  a  fine  length,  were  very 
seriously  bent  on  reconstituting  tin*  Society  of  the 
Thirteen.  They  distributed  the  parts  among 
themselves,     and     assigned     to     each     his     battle 

ground:  "You  —  you  are  a  handsome fellow ;  you 

shall  be  our  de  Marsay,  you  will  succeed  through 
women  ,\\u\  salons.  You,  Blondct,  by  the  news- 
papers. You  Raatignac,  in  politics."  All  efforts, 
all  resources  were  to  be  held  in  common.  Those 
Who  had  line  linen  and  varnished  boots  were  to 
i;ive  them  to  de  Marsay  to  enable  him  to  go  into 
society.  All  the  wit  they  each  possessed,  their 
invention  of  clever  sayings  and  ideas  were  to  be 

scrupulously  laid  aside  for  the  journalist.  Clients 
were  to  be  found  for  Doctor  Bianchon;  the  politi- 
cal  man  must  be  brought  forward  and  talked  about 
in  the  cafes, — all  this  being  wrapped  in  masonic 
mystery,  passwords,  private  signals,  and  the  rest 
of  the  pretty  nonsense  beneath  which  Hal/a<  con 
(  ealed  at  will  the  gravity  mu\  depth  ol  his  inarvel- 
lous  studies. 

"5 


226  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

Unfortunately,  such  things  may  be  dreamed  and 
written,  but  they  never  live.  Our  Thirteen  were 
not  long  in  finding  this  out.  At  the  end  of  about 
a  week  the  agreement  weakened ;  those  who  had 
fine  linen  preferred  to  wear  it;  the  journalist  had 
to  make  his  wit  for  himself;  the  political  man 
talked*  alone  in  the  cates,  while  his  brethren 
thought  only  of  emptying  their  mugs.  In  short, 
as  our  young  men  were  not  without  intelligence 
(and  the  air  of  Paris  gave  them  more  and  more 
daily),  they  ended  by  laughing  in  one  another's 
faces  and  going  off,  each  on  his  own  line,  to  make 
their  way.  I  don't  know  how  they  succeeded.  I 
only  remember  that  one  of  them  —  the  one  selected 
as  the  political  man  and  from  whom  I  received 
these  details  —  found,  after  a  while,  his  career  and 
his  adventures  suddenly  interrupted ;  his  name 
was  Jules  Valles. 

Balzac,  Mme.  Sand,  and  all  the  great  novel- 
writers  of  the  modern  school  have  often  been  re- 
proached for  having  bcmuddled  quantities  of  young 
brains  and  ruined  whole  lives  by  turning  them 
into  fiction.  But  is  that  the  fault  of  our  novelists  ? 
Is  it  not  more  just  to  lay  the  blame  on  that  need 
of  imitation  inherent  in  youth,  especially  French 
youth,  impressionable  and  vain  to  excess,  eter- 
nally tormented  by  the  desire  to  play  a  part,  to  put 
on  a  celebrated  skin,  to  be  some  one  —  as  if  the 
best  means  of  being  some  one  were  not  to  remain 
one's  self. 

And  as  for  this,  if  we  are  to  make  our  novelists 
responsible   for   all    these    aberrations    of  young 


The  Tricoteusc.  227 

brains  what  shall  be  said  of  our  historians?  They 
too,  they  have  caused  great  ravages,  especially 
of  late  years.  Ever  since  this  rage  for  historical 
studies  came  to  us  from  England  and  from  over 
the  Rhine,  ever  since  this  avalanche  of  histories  of 
die  Revolution,  of  memoirs  of  Robespierre,  Saint- 
Just,  I  Ami  du  penple  the  old  Cordelier,  descended 
upon  us  have  we  not  seen  the  springing  up  of  a 
whole  generation  of  Young  France,  swathed  in 
huge  Jacobin  waistcoats,  carrying  their  heads  en 
Saint  Sacrament,  and  recalling  the  Convention 
by  the  multiplied  folds  of  their  muslin  cravats? 
They  do  not  now  say:  M  You  shall  be  de  Marsay ; 
I  will  be  Rastignac."  No,  these  say :  "  You  shall 
be  Saint-Just ;  I  will  be  Robespierre  " —  which  is 
quite  as  comical  and  much  more  dangerous.  I 
positively  heard  four  years  ago,  in  a  restaurant 
in  the  Latin  quarter,  young  Gascons  declaring  in 
their  devilish  accent:  "  Hein !  that  Raoul  Ri- 
gaut!  what  a  fine  Fouquier-Teinville  he  would 
make !  "  He  did  not  fail  to  do  so,  the  wretch ! 
and  we  ought  to  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that 
he  thoroughly  filled  his  part.  Vermorel  played 
Robespierre  and  made  no  concealment  about  it, 
copying  the  man  with  the  pointed  nose  in  even  his 
private  life,  his  puritan  morals,  and  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  home  like  that  of  a  country  curate. 
They  all  had  their  '93  type  at  which  they  aimed. 
Sometimes  there  were  two  of  the  same;  Robes- 
pierre-Vermorel  had  his  double  in  the  lawyer 
Floquet,  who  was  called,  among  his  intimates,  Max- 
imilien.     At  other  times  they  cumulated,  and  one 


228  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

man  played  two  personages.  I  met  last  winter 
a  pretty  little  officer  of  chasseurs,  whom  Young 
France  had  taught  to  think  he  was  Hoche  and 
Marceau  in  one.  Not  Hoche  only,  nor  Mar- 
ceau  only.  No  !  Hoche  and  Marceau  !  And  he 
believed  it,  that  innocent !  You  could  not  have 
made  him  laugh.  Grave  and  proud,  teeth  clenched, 
gesture  feverish,  you  had  only  to  see  him  drink  his 
absinthe  to  feel  that  within  him  were  the  terrible 
preoccupations  of  a  man  who  hides  beneath  his 
overcoat  the  two  great  swords  of  the  future  repub- 
lic, and  is  always  in  fear  of  losing  one  of  them. 

These  things  amused  us  then.  None  of  us  im- 
agined that  the  comedy  would  end  so  tragically.1 
For  my  part,  I  regarded  it  all  as  a  play,  and  when 
I  could  slip  into  their  coulisses  I  delighted  in 
watching  the  actors  of  the  coming  revolution 
delving  at  their  parts,  rehearsing,  practising  stage 
business,  getting  themselves  up,  and  vamping  over 
the  old  decorations  for  this  renewal  of  '93,  which 
they  intended  to  give  some  day  or  other,  but 
which  I  myself  then   thought  impossible. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  I  chanced  to  be  present 
at  the  formation  of  a  corps  of  tricoteuses  [knitters], 
of  whom  I  just  escaped  being  one  of  the  organizers. 
The  circumstances  were  as  follows :  — 

It  was  during  the  siege,  at  the  hardest  moment 
of  that  hard  winter  of  black  cold   and  of  black 

1  Strange  to  say,  little  is  generally  known,  speaking  compara- 
tively, of  the  Commune  of  Paris,  the  horrors  of  which  equalled 
those  of  '93.  The  reader  is  referred  to  M.  Maxime  Ducamp's  hi* 
tory  of  it.  — »  Tr. 


The   Tricoteuse.  229 

bread,  when  one  could  not  step  without  jostling 
some  baby's  coffin  carried  in  the  arms  and  hur- 
ried along  by  the  walls  of  houses.  "  It  is  heart- 
breaking,  the  number  of  children  who  are  dying  at 
Montmartre,"  said  to  me  one  of  the  most  frantic  of 
the  Ninty-three-ers  of  the  Cafe  de  Madrid.  "  The 
poor  little  things  go  barefooted  in  the  snow.  The 
cold  is  killing  them  like  sparrows.  It  would  be 
charity  to  give  them  stockings,  good,  warm,  wool- 
len stockings.  I  am  organizing  a  subscription  for 
it  —  how  much  will  you  give  ?  " 

The  Ninety-three-er,  of  his  own  nature,  is  not 
sentimental.  In  the  steel-blue  regions  where  he 
soars  there  are  no  little  children ;  there  are  only 
ideas,  abstractions,  and  a  few  geometrical  figures, 
such  as  the  triangle  and  the  guillotine.  Conse- 
quently, I  was  rather  astonished.  My  man  per- 
ceived it,  and  in  order  to  convince  me,  he  added : 
"  Come  to-night  to  Montmartre.  I  am  to  speak  in 
behalf  of  the  object.  You  shall  subscribe  then  if 
you  feel  inclined." 

It  was  worth  the  trouble,  and  I  made  the  journey 
to  Montmartre. 

The  affair  took  place  in  a  ballroom  on  the  ex- 
terior boulevard ;  some  Boule-Noir,  or  Elys6e,  or 
other,  which  had  been  transformed  into  a  "  club." 
It  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  political  education 
of  the  people  of  Paris  takes  place,  as  a  rule,  in  the 
dance-halls. 

When  I  arrived  the  session  had  already  begun, 
the  hall  was  full,  —  an  immense  hall  of  great  length, 
well    arranged  for  squads    of  quadrilles    and    the 


230  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

glorification  of  the  cavalier  sent  performance.  A 
few  petroleum  lamps  (Paris  being  now  without 
gas) ;  a  little  stove  around  which  laurestinus  in 
boxes  were  shivering  like  old  men ;  on  the  seats  an 
audience  of  workmen,  lesser  bourgeois,  National 
Guards,  Civic  Guards,  a  few  Mobiles,  a  few  jupillons 
in  velvet  caps,  five  or  six  cocottes  in  ragged  silk 
gowns;  some  had  come  for  the  club,  others  for 
the  stove,  and  the  cocottes  from  the  habit  of  going 
to  dance-halls  every  evening.  And  in  truth  there 
was  something  pervading  the  atmosphere  like  an 
echo  of  the  former  frou-frou ;  bits  of  mazurkas, 
bars  of  waltzes  humming  about  the  ceiling  like  last 
year's  flies.  Above  it  all,  a  thick  mist,  smelling  of 
pipes  and  moist  flesh. 

Perched  on  the  raised  platform  of  the  orchestra 
was  my  Ninety-three-er,  speaking  with  melancholy 
emotion  of  the  great  misery  of  the  people  and  the 
terrible  mortality  among  little  children.  Suddenly 
he  interrupted  himself,  retreated  one  step  back- 
ward on  the  platform,  arms  outstretched,  mouth 
open,  eyes  staring,  the  classic  amazement  of  ex- 
pressive heads. 

"What  do  I  behold,  citizens?"  he  cried. 
"  There,  there,  in  the  midst  of  you,  a  woman, 
that  woman,  who  knits  —  " 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  as  if  suffocated  by 
emotion,  and  stood  still,  arm  extended.  We  all 
turned  round  and  I  saw,  where  he  pointed,  an  old 
woman  with  a  canaille  head  and  that  crooked  lip 
and  twist  of  the  mouth  from  which  one  hears  in 
the  faubourg  the  tones  of  a   blackguard  of  any 


The  Tricoteuse.  231 

sex  before  he  speaks.  Under  her  cap  and  through 
her  grizzled  hair  was  a  knitting-needle  which 
!  stuck  out  like  a  dart  and  gave  her  the  look  of 
a  dangerous  beast.  Her  bony  hands,  which  she 
lifted  high,  held  the  half-knitted  stocking  of  a 
child. 

While  we  looked  at  her  the  orator  continued : 
"Who  is  this  brave  woman,  this  citizen  who 
comes  to  the  club  with  her  knitting,  to  listen  while 
she  works  to  patriotic  words  ?  Ah  !  now  I  recog- 
nize her  !  She  is  a  knitter  of  Montmartre  —  one 
of  those  who  knit,  O  people !  that  your  children 
may  be  warm  like  the  children  of  the  rich;  she 
knits  that  cold  —  in  the  person  of  Badinguet  — 
may  not  cut  the  throats  of  all  of  them  {laughter 
and  shouts  of  Good !  good  /) ;  that  a  few  be 
left  to  see  the  dawn  of  a  better  day  {Bravo ! 
bravo  f).  O  saintly  knitters  of  Montmartre!  you 
are  worthy  of  your  elder  sisters;  like  them  you 
will  have  your  place  in  history.  Knit,  knit  there- 
fore, like  them,  for  the  People,  for  liberty!  knit, 
knit,  knit !  " 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  her  to  knit.  Under 
the  eyes  of  that  crowd  the  old  woman  knitted 
without  pause,  energetically,  and  I  caught  a  wink 
which  she  gave  to  her  confederate.  From  that 
wink  I  understood  the  whole  affair.  I  saw  that  the 
little  children  of  Montmartre  were  only  a  pretext, 
and  that  the  sole  object  was  to  raise  a  battalion  of 
tricoteuses,  to  float  once  more  a  musty  vocable  of 
the  dictionary  of  '93,  to  vamp  over  an  old  catch- 
word of  the  first  revolution. 


232  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

Well,  well !  In  spite  of  all,  their  revolution  has 
turned  out  more  original  than  they  expected  to 
make  it.  They  wanted  the  tricoteuse  and  they  got 
the  petroleuse.  That  ought  to  teach  this  Young 
France  something. 


A   Year  of  Trouble.  233 


A  YEAR  OF  TROUBLE. 

NOTES   OF  A  PARISIAN  WOMAN. 

BY  MADAME  DAUDET. 

FACTS  do  not  strike  me,  only  the  atmosphere 
which  they  create  about  them,  the  time  of  day 
when  I  became  cognizant  of  them,  the  peculiar 
impression  of  which  they  ever  after  retain  for  me. 
That  is  what  I  shall  now  try  to  relate  to  you  —  I 
mean  that  singular  emotion  made  up  of  the  lessen- 
ing echoes  of  great  battles  and  the  distant  murmur 
of  dying  towns. 

In  the  May  of  last  year,  fleeing  from  Paris  already 
in  trouble  and  saddened  by  an  epidemic,  we  found 
at  the  little  house  in  Seine-et-Oise  the  flowering 
trees  and  the  usual  quiet.  Every  day  news  reached 
us,  accounts  of  riots  every  evening,  those  boulevard 
riots  in  which  the  railings  of  a  theatre  become  a 
refuge  and  the  newspaper  kiosks  attempts  at  bar- 
ricades. These  nightly  tumults,  which  one  drove 
to  see  in  carriages,  made  me  feel  the  triviality  of 
that  hurrying,  shouting  crowd,  singing  as  if  for  a 
festival  at  an  hour  when  the  boulevard  lamps  give 
to  the  leafage  of  the  trees  the  reflections  of  a  vil- 
lage ball.  The  word  "  Revolution,"  then,  pro- 
nounced recalled  to  me  my  earliest  childhood,  a 


234  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 

flight  through  torn-up  suburbs,  and  courtyards 
laid  open  by  cannon-balls;  also  the  emotion  of 
those  about  me;  emotion  which  children  feel  in 
the  trembling  of  the  arms  that  carry  them,  and  the 
voice  that  speaks  to  them ;  and  lastly,  the  country, 
which  I  saw  again  in  sunshine,  all  blue  like  the 
mist  of  a  dream,  the  arrival,  the  rest,  all  danger 
passed.  This  was  like  a  lightning  flash  from  the 
bottom  of  my  memory ;  but  the  great  moral  shock, 
the  deaths  at  the  street  corners,  all  those  sinister 
things  that  my  childish  eyes  had  not  perceived,  I 
still  did  not  imagine. 

In  this  sad  month  of  May  Parisians  were  hurrying 
to  the  railway  stations  as  they  always  do  in  spring. 
For  many,  who  expected  to  return  in  the  autumn, 
exile  was  actually  beginning,  a  bathing-season  pro- 
longed to  a  year,  a  life  in  hotels  far  away  from  the 
home.  Mothers  were  departing,  little  aware  that 
they  would  never  again  see  the  beloved  home,  the 
family  nest  where  they  had  warmly  nurtured  their 
dispersed  children,  and  all  unthinking  that  they 
should  die  away  from  it  in  a  land  of  passage. 
Here  a  child  is  starting  for  a  holiday  who  will  be 
thought  of  later  with  regret  for  the  hasty  adieus  and 
the  long  revoirs.  Everywhere  separated  beings; 
and  later,  for  all,  a  poignant  uncertainty. 

The  small-pox,  which  had  driven  us  from  Paris, 
rapidly  invaded  our  tranquil  refuge.  The  few 
houses  between  the  forest  and  the  Seine  were 
made  uneasy  by  it  for  several  days.  Whole  fam- 
ilies  were   attacked,  and   twice   I   met  the   same 


A    Year  of  Trouble.  235 

woman  in  mourning,  who  had  walked  a  league  in 
the  dust  and  heat  to  attend  the  death-bed  of  a 
relation.  I  was  working  one  afternoon  at  my 
window.  The  weather  was  fine;  all  was  youth 
and  song,  the  trees  in  their  verdure,  the  flowers 
in  bud.  Some  one  said :  "  A  man  has  just  died 
close  by  you." 

I  had  seen  that  man  sometimes  as  he  came  along 
the  road  from  the  fields,  carrying  his  tools,  bent, 
weary,  humble,  and  obscure.  I  don't  know  what 
great  feeling  moved  me  all  of  a  sudden ;  without 
thinking  about  it,  it  seemed  to  me  that  death  went 
past  me,  quite  close,  beautiful  death;  and  as  it 
passed  it  enlarged  the  sky,  the  horizon,  suspend- 
ing for  a  second  all  that  springtide  of  life,  respect- 
ful before  the  eternal  silence. 

Summer  came,  a  superb  summer  of  long  days, 
rich  and  flowery.  The  air  of  the  garden  grew 
tinted,  perfumed  with  blossoms  that  opened  to  the 
sun.  The  harvests  promised  to  be  magnificent. 
How  many  were  left  standing  that  year !  How 
many  ripened  and  were  never  gathered,  but  were 
lost,  scattered,  or  burned  in  barns  and  granaries 
open  to  the  winds  !  At  this  time  the  sunsets  seemed 
to  glow  like  conflagrations,  and  we  felt,  passing 
through  our  tranquil  hours  and  deserted  fields,  a 
stormy  breath  that  bent  the  wheat  and  made  the 
dust  of  the  high-roads  whirl  as  if  from  a  charge  of 
cavalry.     War  had  been  declared. 

The  Marseillaises  at  the  street  corners ;  battalions 
crossing  Paris  and  beating  time  with  their  steps  "  to 


2 36  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

Berlin,"  lines  of  ambulances,  collections  taken  up 
by  the  wayside  for  the  white  banners  with  the  red 
cross.  And  then  that  sad  departure  of  young  lads, 
Mobiles,  still  mere  school-boys,  whom  their  mothers 
brought  in  carriages,  with  how  many  .tears  !  And 
that  formidable  throng  at  the  railway  stations,  that 
sad  concourse  as  if  the  whole  city  were  depopulat- 
ing itself,  in  which  one  has  so  fully  the  sensation 
of  crowds;  the  exhaustion,  the  bewildering  lassitude 
of  that  great  uproar.  What  a  hum  of  departing 
trains  !  .  .  Hasten  !  they  are  cutting  the  rails  over 
there,  they  are  burning  the  stations.  It  seems  as 
though  each  train  were  lost  in  the  darkness ;  as  if 
the  battalions  sown  along  the  great  plains  might 
seek  in  vain  to  come  together,  to  reunite.  All  is 
trouble  and  confusion.  From  time  to  time  a  word 
in  the  newspapers  which  chills  the  heart :  "  The 
enemy  are  pillaging  the  French  waggons  at  Reims." 
We  scent  defeat,  rout. 

Every  family  felt  the  counter-blow  of  our  disas- 
ter. I  remember  at  a  birthday  fete  how  the  flowers 
were  quickly  hidden  and  all  eyes  filled  with  tears ; 
anxiety  for  the  absent  one,  the  dread  of  fresh  de- 
partures ;  the  table  seemed  too  large,  the  house 
empty. 

Soon  we  were  forced  to  return  to  Paris.  Never 
in  my  life  shall  I  forget  that  August  day;  the 
peasant-women  weeping  at  their  doors  as  they 
watched  the  laden  carriages  and  flocks  of  animals 
passing  pell-mell  along  the  roads ;  oxen  fastened 
upon  carts,  and  hand-barrows  on  the  highway. 
Near  to  Paris  the  trees  were  cut  down,  the  ram- 


A    Year  of  Trouble,  237 

parts  strengthened,  crowded  by  workmen;  and, 
in  spite  of  the  defeat,  as  it  was  Sunday  and  the 
sun  was  shining,  women  in  white  waists  and  light- 
coloured  skirts  who  had  come  to  look  on  at  the 
works. 


It  is  now  September  4.  A  morning  of  expecta- 
tion ;  something  in  the  air  like  the  vague  shadow, 
foretold,  which  precedes  a  great  eclipse.  Towards 
midday  the  bakers  close  their  shops,  the  streets 
empty.  Fighting,  they  said,  was  going  on  in  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  Paris  is  so  vast  that  one 
never  knows  exactly  what  is  happening.  .  .  But 
no  !  from  the  boulevard  a  band  of  men  are  com- 
ing down  singing  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  The 
Republic  is  proclaimed.  I  feel  very  sad.  It 
seems,  however,  that  this  is  fortunate,  but  I  do  not 
like  these  songs  of  a  crowd  which  take  you  by  the 
throat,  force  emotion,  and  make  it  nervous.  I 
would  rather  hear  a  clear,  calm  voice  announce 
great  things. 

The  next  day,  a  visit  to  the  camp  at  Saint-Maur. 
What  flags  !  Paris  was  still  gay,  or  rather,  giddy. 
The  war  seemed  forgotten.  Perhaps  because  the 
Prussians  were  felt  to  be  steadily  advancing,  and  a 
trip  beyond  the  gates  —  gates  that  were  being 
armed  and  fortified  and  would  soon  be  closed  like 
those  of  a  prison  —  was  almost  a  boon.  Much 
noise  and  dust.  We  went  along  the  race-course, 
and  the  whole  way  resounded  with  the  noisy  gay- 
ety  of  Parisians  who  come  out  once  a  week  to  look 
at  trees. 


238  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 

The  lines  of  tents,  under  shelter  of  Vincennes, 
the  little  wars,  the  volleys  of  which  escaped  in  a 
white  smoke  at  the  foot  of  low  hills,  and  the  dips 
in  the  ground,  so  well  fitted  to  group  episodes  of 
battle,  this  going  and  coming  of  uniforms,  of  artil- 
lery, of  people  in  Sunday  clothes,  of  traders  of  all 
sorts,  this  morrow  of  revolution,  driving  with  great 
noise  in  over-crowded  char-a-bancs,  remain  fixed 
in  my  memory. 

A  few  days  later,  still  of  a  Sunday,  the  first  can- 
non sounded  under  a  clear  blue  sky.  The  very 
early  hour,  the  quiet  of  the  streets  and  neighbour- 
ing courtyards,  the  stillness  of  all  the  manufactories, 
of  the  thousand  noises  that  one  hears,  and  which 
fill  the  work-days,  conversations  at  doors  —  signs 
of  stoppage  or  of  fete  —  everything  about  me  made 
me  think  of  former  I5ths  of  August;  the  balconies 
decked  with  little  lanterns,  lines  of  gas-jets,  and 
flowered  with  flags,  the  long  avenue  of  the  Champs- 
filys6es,  the  great  quays  of  the  Seine  bathed  in 
Bengal  lights  and  a  rain  of  gold.  .  .  This  time  the 
cannon  signified  other  things. 

Again  an  appearance  of  fete,  these  pilgrimages 
to  the  statue  of  the  city  of  Strasburg,  bouquets  in 
hand,  bands  at  their  head.  Later  that  stone  face 
was  veiled  in  crape.  And  yet  they  did  not  swathe 
in  black  the  statues  of  the  tombs ;  their  mourning 
garb  was  white,  strewn  with  immortelles. 

It  was  during  these  last  days  of  sunshine  that  I 
saw,  in  the  Palais-Royal,  seated  against  a  tree  on 
the    hard   gravel  of  the  public  garden,  two  poor 


A    Year  of  Trouble.  239 

women,  two  working-women,  employed  in  making 
caps       Children  were  playing  around  them,  two 
handsome,    chubby    children,   rather    sun-burned. 
The    women   were    not    Parisians,    nor    peasants 
cither       Looking    at   them,    one    thought   of  the 
outskirts  of  Paris,  some  village  square,  doorways 
encumbered  with  linen  drying,   children  playing, 
women  working,  of  melancholy  streets  ending  in 
fields,  pavements  full  of  grass,  and  horizons  of  for- 
tifications.    Poor  people!  they  were  all  coming  in, 
dragging  their  household  goods  with  them,  to  lodge 
in  Paris  in  I  know  not  what  dark  hole ;   and,  im- 
pelled by  the  habits  of  open  air  and  outdoor  life, 
these  two  had  come  to  sit  at  the  foot  of  trees,  while 
the  Mobiles  were  being  drilled  before  the  shops  of 
the  jewellers  and  the  tables  of  the  cafe.     Exiles 
everywhere  I     These  sad,  homeless  women,  those 
tall  fellows  in  blue  blouses,  all  under  their  guns  in 
the  bent,  patient  attitude  of  beings  accustomed  to 
delve,  to  toil  in  the  earth ;  listening  to  commands 
with  the  puckered  brow  of  narrow  intellects  which 
have   to   collect  themselves   wholly    before    they 
slowly    understand ;     after   which  they    remember 
well.      Such  were  the  exiles  from  the  provinces. 
Where  are  those  from  Paris?     Great  cases  full 
of  light-coloured    gowns,   morning    gowns,  toilets 
for  the  seashore,  for  Casinos,  canes  of  Louis  Seize, 
little  hats  with  enormous  feathers  —  all  had  been 
taken  away  for  a  trip   of  two  months.     October 
comes ;  the  rain  falls ;  the  sea  is  high ;  the  weather 
melancholy.     Let  us  move  on.     Accordingly  they 
change  their  abode,  thinking  all  the  while  of  Paris. 


240  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

Artillery  caissons,  ambulances,  concerts  for  the 
wounded,  a  noisy  and  lugubrious  boulevard.  At 
night,  the  shops  lighted  by  a  single  lamp,  the 
houses,  the  trees  having  ample  space  to  spread 
their  shadows,  and  the  moonlight  superb  in  this 
extinguished  city  —  which  makes  the  corners  of 
the  streets  dangerous,  the  roofs  wan,  Paris  too 
large  —  it  is  thus  that  we  must  see  it  in  dreaming 
of  it. 

Each  house  has  its  anguish.  The  children  no 
longer  have  milk.  We  tremble  for  those  on  the 
ramparts.  We  fear  for  those  afar  off,  in  that 
gloomy  line  which  surrounds  the  city,  an  engage- 
ment of  the  outposts  and  those  watches  of  the 
grand'garde,  where  the  slightest  rustle  of  foliage, 
a  pebble  rolling  to  the  water  brings  the  hissing  of 
bullets.  Danger  everywhere,  and  day  by  day  less 
hope.  Oh !  those  dark  days,  the  pigeons  lost, 
the  provinces  so  far  off,  the  mud  of  Bourget,  the 
cannon  always  belated,  the  square  of  the  Hdtel  de 
Ville  foggy  and  tumultuous. 

And  yet,  perhaps  never  did  one  feel  that  force, 
that  living  soul  of  Paris,  more  active,  —  in  spite  of 
the  very  cold  winter,  the  waitings  before  the 
butcher's-shops,  begun  in  the  night-time  and  in 
snow,  when  the  cannon  of  the  forts  were  thunder- 
ing, when  we  dreamed  of  French  battalions  ad- 
vancing in  haste  through  a  devastated  country, 
the  woods  rased,  and  having  but  one  battle  left 
to  fight,  one  river  left  to  cross ;  we  breathed  every- 
where an  air  of  high  courage,  as  if  in  Paris,  already 


A   Year  of  Trouble.  241 

delivered,  the  gates  opened,  Liberty  were  hover- 
ing above  the  whole  city,  laden  with  conquering 

banners.  .     ~ 

But  beyond  the  ramparts  what  distress!     De- 
serted    roads,     abandoned     manufactories,    great 
•gloomy  plains   already  looking   like   battle-fields, 
the  earth  torn-up  and  hollowed.    Loop-holes  in  the 
walls  of  the  manufactories,  intrenchmcnts  in  the 
parks,   battalions    of   Mobiles    encamped    in    all, 
the  villages,  some    installed   in    pretty  bourgeois 
residences   with   gilded   railings,   porticos,   balco- 
nies   where   uniforms  were   drying  the  day  after 
mounting  guard;   others  were  shivering    lighting 
great   fires   in   the   one-storey  houses   where   the 
smaller  tradesmen  of  Paris  go  out  in  summer  to 
spend  one  day  a  week,  and  where  from  the  garden 
and  the  low-windowed  chambers  they  can  talk  and 
call   to  one  another   in   the   peace  of  a  Sunday 

evening. 

All  around,  overlooking  this  melancholy  zone, 
woods,  mills,  hillsides,  scarcely  distinct  in  the  fogs 
of  winter,  where  the  enemy's  cannon  keep  arriving 
daily  in  spite  of  the  snow  and  the  bad  roads; 
planting  themselves  in  ambush,  pointing  at  Pans, 
rendering  forever  lugubrious  the  names  of  little 
villages,  so  gay  to  read  in  the  sunshine  on  the 
railway  stations,  at  the  corners  of  roads  when  they 
were  to  Parisians  the  objects  of  a  drive  and  a 
rendezvous  for  fetes. 

The  days  become  shorter,  bread  more   scarce. 
One  evening,  in  the  twilight  of  shops  lighted  by 
one  lamp  only,  there  are  gilt  things,  bright  ribbons, 
16 


242  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

sugar-plums  in  tender  colours.  This  is  Christmas  ! 
The  humble  cradle  sheltered  in  corners  of  chapels, 
rocked  with  canticles  and  flowered  with  lilies  — 
adorable  symbols  of  infancy  —  gives  eternal  joy 
to  all  the  little  ones.  They  ought  to  see  in  dreams 
at  least  once  a  year  that  smiling  Jesus  lying  in  the 
manger,  the  straw  scattered  round  him,  like  lumi- 
nous rays. 

1  For  children  likewise,  this  New  Year's  Day  in 
a  beleaguered  city  spreading  playthings  out  among 
the  encumbering  masses  of  battalions  in  arms.  On 
little  tables  the  height  of  a  child's  eye,  we  see 
once  more  the  little  articles  of  furniture  (which 
look  like  a  pauper's  house-moving),  and  the 
chubby-faced  dolls,  to  which  snow  and  the  north 
wind  are  giving  such  lively  colours.  The  shops 
are  filling  with  marvels.  And  yet  those  heavy 
drays  we  are  wont  to  see  arriving  at  the  stations 
of  the  Eastern  railroad,  laden  with  white  wooden 
boxes  retaining,  as  it  were,  a  perfume  of  the 
forests  of  the  North,  are  not  coming  this  year; 
perhaps  they  will  never  come  again.  But  do  not 
feel  alarmed.  Paris  can  suffice  unto  herself,  and 
our  children  will  never  lack  playthings.  In  the 
depths  of  the  sad  little  courtyards  in  the  poorer 
quarters,  in  corners  of  the  faubourg  without  light 
or  air  there  are  tall  houses  five  storeys  high  filled 
with  patient  needles  and  delicate  looms  which 
scatter  threads  of  gold  lace  and  shavings  of  rose- 
wood into  the  dust  of  attics. 

Paris   still  found  strength  to  smile.     Two  days 
later,  on  three   sides  at  once,  the   bombardment 


A    Year  of  Trouble.  243 

broke  forth,  lugubrious,  continual.  The  earth  was 
shaken  as  well  as  the  air,  and  hearths  that  were 
sheltered  and  far  from  disaster  felt  their  windows 
shaken  like  a  warning  or  a  threat.  In  that  great 
city,  where  the  closed  manufactories  were  silent, 
their  strength  and  life  expending  themselves  on 
the  ramparts  and  at  the  outposts,  in  the  streets 
almost  deserted,  where  carriages  were  rare  and 
passers  sad,  this  great  bombardment  resembled 
those  storms  which  make  silence  around  them, 
arrest  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  murmur  of 
fields,  as  if  to  render  more  sinister  the  thunderbolt 
that  falls  and  the  house  that  crumbles. 

The  first  lightning  of  this  great  storm  had  shone 
upon  the  blue  line  of  the  frontiers  on  a  fine  sum- 
mer's day.  The  wheat  was  not  reaped,  the  vines 
lined  the  slopes,  the  great  trees  quivered  full  of 
life.  The  rivers  sang  beneath  the  arches  of  the 
bridges,  and  the  town  surrounded  by  fortresses, 
the  villages  surrounded  by  water,  composed  with 
their  daily  life  an  atmosphere  of  noise  or  of  calm- 
ness, which  rose  into  their  corner  of  the  sky,  and 
seemed  as  if  it  must  envelop  them  forever. 

"  The  enemy  is  crossing  the  Rhine  all  along  the 
front." 

I  remember  the  shudder  that  I  felt  on  reading 
that  little  despatch,  slender  as  the  line  that  marks 
the  frontier  on  a  map,  with  such  great  horizons  be- 
yond it.  After  that  day  nothing  could  stop  them, 
and  that  enormous  power,  invasion,  irresistible  as 
water,  which  flows  the  stronger  and  more  terrible 
from   each   obstacle,   drove  in  the   ramparts,  and 


244  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

forced  the  passages.  Paris,  for  five  months,  was 
indeed  the  Isle  of  France  in  the  midst  of  a  torrent 
which  roared  around  its  gates. 

The  struggle  is  over.  As  the  forts  must  be 
surrendered,  and  the  arms  delivered  up,  the  sol- 
diers return  to  Paris.  They  march  without  order, 
disbanded.  We  feel  the  tumult  of  that  return, 
which  lets  us  see,  confused,  confounded,  dragging 
their  feet,  those  masses  of  men,  usually  so  alike  in 
gait  and  costume,  a  unit  in  marching,  that  we  seem 
to  hear  a  giant's  step  upon  the  way.  But  near  the 
Observatory  at  the  corner  of  one  of  those  streets 
lined  with  trees  which  end  Paris,  I  saw  a  whole 
battalion  of  Bretons  marching  in  line  as  they  did  on 
their  departure.  From  time  to  time  the  commander 
who  marched  at  their  head  turned  round  to  them : 
*  Come  on,  my  gars,  come  on  !  "  This  was  said 
with  the  intonation  of  a  shepherd  gathering  and 
encouraging  a  wearied  flock.  All  around  were  bat- 
tered houses,  twisted  balconies,  and  burned  sheds. 
That  day  was  heart-breaking.  Emotion  trembled 
in  all  voices.  Discouragement  was  in  the  air,  a 
lassitude  that  was  felt  even  more  than  defeat,  the 
despair  of  the  useless  weapon,  broken,  and  flung 
into  the  moats  of  the  fortress. 

Trouble  entered  Paris  at  that  moment  and  never 
left  it  again.  It  was  perpetual  agitation  —  the 
agitation  that  fills  the  streets  and  leaves  the  work- 
shops empty.  Processions  without  end  went  up 
to  the  Bastille,  grouped  themselves  around  the 
column   of  July,  which   was   decorated   with   red 


A    Year  of  Trouble.  245 

flags  and  crowns  of  immortelles.  Cannon  rumbled 
along  the  pavements  as  if  casting  a  defiance  to 
that  accursed  place.  One  felt  that  a  great  impetus 
had  been  given,  and  that  a  city  stirred  for  four 
months  by  so  many  songs,  trumpet-blasts,  and 
drums,  could  not  return  to  labour  and  to  calmness 
without  a  shock.  Paris  still  kept  up  its  appearance 
of  a  besieged  city  living  from  day  to  day.  The 
sidewalks  were  noisy,  encumbered  with  articles  of 
all  kinds  as  on  the  morrow  of  a  conflagration, 
when,  the  house  being  destroyed,  the  household 
goods  which  have  been  saved  cast  hurriedly  from 
the  windows,  the  women  and  children  camp  in  the 
streets  and  settle  there  for  the  life  of  a  day. 

I  do  not  know  what  uncertainty  keeps  us  at  the 
windows,  drags  us  to  noises.  Bayonets  glitter 
everywhere,  though  nothing  more  was  said  of  bat- 
tles, barricades  at  the  bridges,  defiances  of  Paris 
against  Paris,  those  dangerous  misunderstandings, 
when  tocsins  and  volleys  answer  each  other  with 
the  obstinacy  of  a  signal.  We  felt  the  pavements 
tremble,  hatreds  quiver.  With  it  all,  the  caprice  of 
a  Parisian  springtime,  the  most  capricious  of  all. 
The  March  sun,  that  hot  sun  which  comes  before 
the  buds  put  forth,  scorches  and  does  harm,  glid- 
ing between  two  showers  upon  crazy  posters. 
While  in  the  deserted  shops  the  long  idle  shop- 
keepers are  hastening  to  dress  their  windows,  clean 
the  panes,  and  sweep  away  the  dust,  sole  visitor 
from  without  for  months,  carriages  are  passing 
silently,  hurriedly,  bearing  away  the  life  of  Paris, 
the  fortunes  of  Paris. 


246  Letters  to  an  Absent  One, 

Behold  her  delivered  over  to  herself,  shut  up 
anew,  that  terrible  Paris.  We,  who  have  all  left 
her,  we  live  with  our  eyes  turned  to  the  hills  that 
hide  her  from  us  and  knowing  nothing  now  of 
what  goes  on  within  her.  We  are  here  in  a  con- 
quered country ;  the  roads  are  free,  the  gates  wide 
open,  the  house  is  no  longer  its  own.  The  rail- 
ings have  gaps  for  the  passage  of  cavalry,  and 
around  the  lawns,  which  are  turning  green,  and 
the  groves,  that  are  budding,  soldiers  are  walking 
about,  crushing  the  flowers,  cutting  the  branches 
with  the  careless  indifference  of  idler  and  victor. 
Near-by  are  other  country-houses,  completely 
abandoned  for  the  last  year;  their  owners  de- 
parting when  the  war  broke  out,  and  never  return- 
ing to  see  the  miseries  of  the  invasion. 

The  house  is  plundered,  the  hedges  ruined,  grass 
is  growing  in  the  paths.  In  a  corner  of  the  garden 
is  a  woman  in  charge  of  a  child,  her  eyes  turned 
to  the  highway,  rendering  the  solitude  that  hangs 
about  her  sadder  still  by  her  own  air  of  expectant 
waiting  and  idleness.  The  bridges  had  all  been 
destroyed  and  the  great  trees  felled  where  their 
shadows  had  lain,  and  yet  by  the  shore  road  which 
swept  round  the  slope  the  Prussians  arrived  in  spite 
of  all  precautions,  without  the  loss  of  either  man  or 
horse. 

For  the  last  four  months  they  have  been  there. 
Battalions  succeed  each  other,  marching  toward 
Paris  or  returning  to  Germany,  and,  after  a  short 
halt  and  a  summons  on  the  high-road  (for  all 
doors  are  marked  in  advance),  the  men  enter,  in- 


A   Year  of  Trouble.  247 

stall  themselves,  clean  their  arms,  set  the  watches, 
and  go  in  and  out  at  all  hours. 

Nothing  is  usually  more  charming  than  to  be 
the  last  to  go  to  sleep  in  a  silent  house  which  we 
feel  to  be  full  of  loved  ones.  A  great  calm  after 
the  bustle  of  the  day  pervades  the  walls,  the  furni- 
ture; the  air  of  the  garden  and  all  the  breezes 
heard  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  night  seem  the 
breathing  of  the  house  itself,  slumbering  in  the 
moonlight,  the  doorway  mute,  the  windows  closed. 
But  to  feel  close  by  an  imposed  guest,  one  who 
has  come  of  himself,  gun  in  hand,  bloodying 
hedges  and  rivers,  a  guest  who  has  entered  by 
force,  to  whom  grief  and  pride  gave  free  way  as 
soon  as  he  arrived  !  Who  knows  from  how  many 
battles  he  is  resting,  and  with  how  many  dreams 
of  victories  and  massacres  he  is  troubling  the  invis- 
ible soul  of  the  home?  There  is  a  corner  in  the 
house  that  one  would  fain  wall  up. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  all  this  sadness  that  we 
heard  cannon  thundering  in  Paris.  In  the  wood 
still  leafless  the  shells  fell  like  hail ;  the  nightin- 
gales uttered  their  limpid  notes  in  the  white-thorn 
bushes,  the  frogs  hopped  about  in  the  little  pools 
which  the  rain  had  left  in  the  ruts ;  the  noise  was 
too  great  and  too  distant  to  disturb  those  little  lives 
that  were  only  made  uneasy  by  the  breaking  of  a 
branch,  or  the  fall  of  a  leaf. 

The  Tuileries  and  the  Louvre  are  burned ! 
The  Tuileries,  a  beautiful  memory  of  childhood  ! 
Parisian  Sundays,  sombre  skies  above  the  gray  slate 


248  Letters  to  an  Absent  One. 

roofs,  the  basins  where  the  alleys  widen  and  branch, 
the  sad  clock,  the  statues,  the  great  terrace  skirt- 
ing the  quay,  the  water  so  near,  the  soft  melan- 
choly of  the  declining  day,  and  the  mist  which  rises 
while  Paris  is  illuminating  around  it.  Flocks  of 
children,  blue  velvets,  white  furs,  and  later  the  joy, 
so  great,  of  making  the  little  feet  run  in  the  sand 
where  we  have  set  our  own. 

And  the  Louvre  ?  Why  no !  The  Louvre  was 
saved.  The  next  day  people  said :  "  Paris  is 
burned,  all  Paris." 

I  saw  it  later,  riddled  with  balls,  in  that  terrible 
hour  when  the  calcined  walls,  still  standing,  seemed 
to  be  protected  against  the  flames,  while  from  the 
smoking  ruins  rose  an  odour  of  conflagration. 

On  that  day  the  weather  was  superb.  At  the 
top  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  the  sun  was  putting  gal- 
leries of  light  behind  the  vacant  windows,  and  the 
statues  stood  erect  and  whole,  as  if  their  proud 
deportment  had  saved  them  from  the  general 
overthrow. 


I 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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